


Got Your Number

by Afalstein



Category: CSI: NY, NCIS, Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/M, Multiple Crossovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-12 08:05:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 53,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4471658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Afalstein/pseuds/Afalstein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Hello Abby."  The strange man said. "You're in great danger."  When Abby disappears on her vacation in New York, the rest of the team must scramble to find her and the mysterious "man in the suit" connected to her disappearance.  McAbby, hints of Tiva later.  Takes place during Season 2 of Person of Interest</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pickup Lines

“No, its… no, Ziva?  Ziva, listen to me.  I’m not in any danger.  New York is perfectly safe.  I’m having a blast here and no one is going to rain on my vacation parade.”  Abby Scuito twirled a few shopping bags in her left hand.  “They experienced a fifty-percent drop in violent crimes just last year, so… whatever statistics you’re looking at?  They’re off.  If the NYPD keeps up whatever they’re doing, crime should be down like seventy-five percent this year!  I’m practically safer here than I was in Washington!”

                She listened for a moment and smiled.  “Good.  Now that we’ve got THAT out of the way, let me tell you about my trip.  I went to see the Chrysler building yesterday—huge letdown, by the way, they had the upper floors closed for renovation or something—and got my picture taken in Times Square by the big TV thing they have there.  And I went to Central Park and hung out with this awesome old dude who plays guitar, and… What?  Yeah, I went to see Ground Zero.  I saw Ground Zero on my first day here, Ziva.  I’m not that clueless, jeez.”

                “Oh yeah, the job.  Yeah, they were totally fine with it.  They brought me up to the lab and let me take a look at EVERYTHING.  They have the coolest forensic labs here, Ziva!  Detective Taylor even let me help out with some of the forensic work they were doing on this lady who got stabbed with a kitchen knife.  Fascinating stuff, by the way.  Y’see, they originally thought it was one of the knifes in the house with her, but when we checked through them none matched, so we had to buy the leading brands of kitchen knives to… Ziva, I’m not boring you, am I?  Just ‘cause I thought I lost you for a minute.”

                “No.  No, Ziva, I keep telling you, New York is safe.  In fact, New Yorkers are awesome.  The other day?  This really cute guy saved me from being run over by a car and I… Jeez, Ziva, not so loud.  It was just a stupid mistake.  I was crossing the street and some car ran a red light and this guy in a suit yanked me out of the way just in time, okay?  Nothing big.  There’s not anybody here out to kill me.”

                “Oh, wow.  Ziva, I’m going to have to call you back, but I have just arrived at a genuine New York outdoor café, and it has been one of my lifetime ambitions to eat at a genuine New York outdoor café.  Tell the others hi from me.” 

Abby stopped in mid-stride.  “What? Why would you ask that?  Well, yeah, I would usually call McGee with stuff like this, but…”  Abby bit her lip.  “It’s… just kind of awkward right now.  Y’know?”  She listened for a bit and then smiled.  “Thanks.  I knew you’d understand.”  After a moment’s hesitation, she asked, “How’s… he doing?  Oh, good.  Good.  Yeah, glad to hear that.  Tell him hi.  Okay.  Goodbye for real this time.”

                Abby snapped her cell phone shut and bounded into the restaurant, where she assaulted the clerk with a voluminous order.  Minutes later she was happily seated at a café table, munching away at a genuine New York sandwich and drinking a genuine New York slurpee while flipping through the pictures she’d taken of the genuine New York city.

                Just when she thought things could not possibly get any better than this, a tall, dark haired stranger dropped into the seat across from her.

                “Hello Abby,” said the strange man.  “You’re in great danger.”


	2. Absent Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NCIS gets a call from Detective Taylor--Abby is missing.

**OCT 26 09:32:48 NCIS OFFICE INTERIOR**

                Special Agent Tony Dinozzio walked into the NCIS office with an unusually contemplative look on his face.  “Astonishing how a mind as brilliant as mine can devote years of sweat and tears to a subject and still not master it.”

                “Some might call it astonishing.”  Ziva David, former MOSSAD agent, nodded from her desk.  “I’ve long since stopped being surprised by your ignorance in any particular area.  AND your inability to learn anything."

                “I’m speaking of women.”  Tony threw her a look of mock-censure.  “Just when you think you’ve got them figured out, they do something that throws you for a complete loop.”

                “Amen to that.”  From his desk, Special Agent Tim McGee raised his eyebrows. “There a story behind this, Tony?”

                “Nothing worth mentioning.”    Tony let out a contemplative sigh.  “Still, I will confess that the failure makes me despair of ever deciphering the great mystery that is Woman.”

                “Perhaps it is not that women are so complicated, but rather that men are so dull.”  Ziva shot back.

                “Your words would wound me if they had any truth to them.”

                “Trust me. Be grateful that you do not have to comprehend MEN,” harrumphed Ziva.

                “Nonsense.”  Tony spared a moment to adjust his hair.  “Men are clear, honest, simple.  Nothing easier to understand.  Women are something else entirely.”

                “I know there are SOME women I’ve never understood.”  McGee said suddenly.

                Tony and Ziva looked at each other. 

                McGee was staring at the screen with an unusual intensity.  “Just when you think you’ve found the one and everything’s all sorted out…”  He shook his head.  “I’m with you, Tony.  Women are impossible to understand.”

                “No more than any other person.”  Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs, head of Major Crimes, walked past McGee’s desk.

                “Hi boss.”  Tony replied, watching the older agent.  “We got a case?”

                “Oddly enough, no,” answered Gibbs, clicking away on his computer.  “Criminals must be having a holiday, or at least the ones in our jurisdiction.”

                “This is going on… two weeks?  Without a case?  Quite something.”  Tony marveled.

                “So far as I know, no one’s complaining about the lack of bodies.”  Sighing, Gibbs slapped the side of his monitor in frustration.  “McGee!”

                “Coming, boss.”  The IT specialist left his desk.

                While they were occupied, Tony caught a small motion from Ziva’s head.  As discreetly as possible, he left his workstation and came over.

                “You think he’s still upset about…?”

                “Definitely.”  Tony nodded, watching McGee.  “Just as well that Abby’s on vacation, really.  Give him another week of space, he should recover.”

                “I hope so.” Ziva whispered back.

                Gibbs’ phone started ringing.  “Hold on a second, McGee.”  He waved the technician off as he raised the phone.  “Special Agent Gibbs, NCIS.”  There was a slight pause.  “Yes, that’s right.  What can I do for you, Detective Taylor?”

                The whole office saw Gibbs stand up.  “Are you sure?  Since when?”  Another pause.  “Okay.  I’ll be down there shortly.  Keep me informed”

                The phone crashed back down into the receiver, and Gibbs snagged his coat off the chair.  “Grab your gear, we head out in ten!”  He snapped.

                “We have a case?”  Tony raised his eyebrows.

                “Something like that,” returned Gibbs grimly.  “Abby’s missing.”

* * *

 

**OCT 26 09:56:23 FORWARD CABIN**

                The plane ride out to New York was understandably tense.  Gibbs was in a barely controlled fury as he passed out the pictures. “Abby’s been dropping in and out of the New York Crime Lab for the last two weeks, helping them with a case.  When she didn’t show up today, Detective Taylor, the man in charge of the lab, sent out some men to investigate.  The only thing they found in her room was a dead body.”

                McGee paled.  “No, I thought…”

                “Not HERS, McGee,” snapped the senior agent irritably.  “Male, in his 40’s.  Well-built.  No ID found on his body, they’re currently running his prints through the system.”

                “Cause of death?”  Dr. Mallard, the team’s Medical Examiner, glanced up from the photo.

                “Assumed to be the bullet hole in his skull.”

                “That would make sense.”  Ziva nodded.

                Tony frowned.  “Except Abby doesn’t carry a gun.  She uses a tazer.”

                “They’re running the bullets through ballistics, see what they can find.”  Gibbs nodded.  “There was a gun next to the body also… a Walther P99.”

                “Ooooh, nice.”  Tony nodded approvingly.  “Was it his?”

                “His prints are on the grip.”  Gibbs shrugged. “There’s a silencer attached.  And there were several bullets in the opposite wall, so presumably he was firing at someone.”

                “At Abby?”  McGee’s face was pale, his fingers were nervously playing with a pencil.

                “We don’t know.”  Gibbs shook his head.  “There was no blood at the scene, so whoever it was, the victim didn’t hit them.”

                McGee looked slightly relieved, but only slightly.  “But she’s still missing.”

                “Yes.  And if there’s anyone who would’ve called the police, it’s Abs.”  Gibbs glanced around the circle grimly.  “That, plus the bullet holes in the vic, means we have to assume that there was a third party present who kidnapped Abby.”

                “Damnit…”  McGee hid his head in his hands.

                “Any idea who?”  Tony asked.

Gibbs shook his head.  “No prints at the scene apart from Abby’s.  Her cell-phone, camera, and computer were all at the scene, so it’s not a robbery gone bad.  The NYPD is still compiling all the evidence found at the scene, they’ll have more once we arrive.”

“Who is currently in charge of the investigation?” asked Ziva, looking up from the file.

                “Us,” answered Gibbs.  “But until we arrive, a Detective Taylor at the Forensics office is handling things. He’ll update us on the situation once we land.  Should give us a better idea on where to go from there.”

* * *

 

**OCT 26 11:19:27 CSI SURVEILLANCE CAM 24**

                “Detective Taylor?”

A squarish, no-nonsense face glanced up from his desk at the query and cocked an eyebrow at the intruders. 

“NCIS,” indicated Gibbs, flashing his badge.  “Stands for…”

“Naval Criminal Investigation Services.”  Taylor nodded, standing up and coming around his desk.  “Abby told me.  You must be Special Agent Gibbs.  Heard a lot about you.”

                Gibbs acknowledged the compliment with a nod.  “What do you got?”

                “Not a whole lot.”  Taylor shook his head.  Picking up a file on his desk, he passed it over.  “We ID’d the vic as Karl Raburn.  Former marine, now a local gun-for-hire.  Professional.  Usually takes high-paying jobs, so we can assume whoever commissioned him has a healthy bank account.” 

                “Any chance it was just a personal thing?”  Tony asked.  “A Marine would be in our jurisdiction… maybe Abby was involved in a case with him?”

“There was no connection to your teammate that we could find,” responded Taylor, shrugging.  “The bullets in the opposite wall are definitely from his weapon.  The headshot came from above.  There were two bullets in his kneecaps, too, so…”

                “Shot him in the knees, then hit him while he was down.”  Tony nodded.  “Efficient.”

                “Bit much for Abby,” murmured Ziva.

                “Where were the bullets from?” asked Gibbs, flipping through the file.

                “A Glock 17.”  Taylor answered, hands in his pockets.  “Not in the system, unfortunately.  My team is still working to figure out where the shooter was standing.”

 “Any other evidence?”

“The chain on the door was cut, presumably by the vic, there’s a link-cutter in the room with his prints.  Vic also had a roll of duct tape in one coat pocket and a surprising amount of meds in the other.  Bandages, ointments, painkillers.”

“An addiction?”  Tony raised his eyebrows.

“Possibly.  Seems unlikely he’d shoot up before a job, though.  And they were all prescription, we’re currently working on finding out for what.”

“Duct tape.”  McGee looked troubled.  “Had he used it?”

Taylor shook his head.  “No adhesive residue on the roll, so probably not.”

“Anything else?” asked Gibbs, ignoring McGee’s relieved sigh.

“Wood splinter in the carpet, footprint in the mud outside.  Black lint and hair all over the crime scene.”

“That’s probably Abby.”  Tony pointed out.

“Probably, but we thought we’d check.  Raburn is dark-haired too.”

McGee cut in.  “What about surveillance footage?”

 Taylor grimaced.  “That’s a no.  Cameras cut out around 4am, about the same time as the incident happened. No signs before then of anyone else suspicious entering or leaving the apartment.  I’ve got every man I have working on it.”

“What about her belongings?”  Gibbs asked.

“Still going through her pictures and cell phone records.”  A smile crossed Taylor’s face.  “Your girl took a LOT of pictures.  Haven’t managed to access her computer yet, it’s pretty well encrypted…”

“I can help with that,” volunteered McGee, a trifle too quickly.  He quailed under Gibb’s glare.  “I mean, if that’s okay with you, boss…”

                Gibbs shook his head and turned back to the detective.  “This is Special Agent McGee.”  He explained.  “I’d like him and Dr. Mallard to take a closer look at the evidence you’ve gathered, see if they can pick up anything new.”

                “Can always use a second pair of eyes.”  Taylor shrugged. 

“It’s… a bit more than that,” Gibbs inclined his head.  “No offense, detective, but I’d prefer it if my team took over the investigation on this one.”

                Though he looked a trifle annoyed, Taylor nodded all the same.  “Understandable.  Still, let us know if you need any help.”

                “Of course.  Tony.  Ziva.  Let’s take another look at the crime scene.”

* * *

 

**OCT 26 12:45:39 2 ND STAIRWELL CAM**

                The trio jogged up the stairs in near-complete silence.  No one particularly felt like talking about why they were here.  Ziva’s mouth was set in a hard line, and Gibb’s eyes had a touch more steel in them, but other than that, the trio might have been investigating any disappearance.

                But when they got to Abby’s room, they noticed the door was unlocked and open.

                Quietly, Gibbs drew his pistol, signaling to the others to do the same.  They soundlessly entered the first room, checking all the corners.  With a short wave of his hand, Gibbs directed Ziva to check out the left-side door, while he and Tony took the right.  Sidling up to it, Gibbs glanced through the crack in the doorframe.

                There was a tall, dark stranger in a suit going through Abby’s drawers.

                Gibbs didn’t hesitate.  He burst in the room, gun drawn.  “FREEZE!”  He shouted, as the stranger’s weapon came up.  “Federal Agents!”

                The man in the suit didn’t waver.  His pistol remained firmly pointed at Gibb’s head.

                “Do as he says.”  Ziva came from the other door, weapon at the ready.  “Don’t be stupid.”

                “You’re trespassing on a crime scene here,” said Tony, coming from out behind Gibbs.  “You’ve got some explaining to do.”

                The man relaxed.  “I’m hardly trespassing, agents.  After all…” the others tensed as his hand went for his belt, but it just swept the suit back to indicate a NYPD badge. “This is my crime scene.”  Lowering his weapon, he raised his eyebrows.  “Perhaps we should all relax?”

                Gibbs and Tony shared a look and holstered their guns.  Ziva lowered hers but did not take her eyes off the stranger.   “Who are you supposed to be?”

                “Detective Stills, NYPD,” replied the man, in a low, even rumble. He was remarkably nondescript, with nothing particularly noticeable except his height and his silver hair.  His dark suit and white shirt were fine but not flashy, and his face was calm and even, with a set of clear blue eyes that studied them carefully.  “I’ve been investigating Abby Scuito’s disappearance.”  

“You’re with Taylor’s team?”  Tony asked.

“Sure,” nodded the man.  “And now we’ve cleared that up… who are you, exactly?”

                “NCIS.”  Ziva bit out.

"Abby worked with us."  Tony added.

                Stills’ face did not change.  “They didn’t tell me the feds were coming over.”

“They didn’t tell us there was anyone still here,” noted Gibbs drily.  “I would have thought you’d have finished studying the crime scene by now.  Abby’s disappearance was noted what, this morning?”

                “9am. I came back here to look a few things over, and to pick up a few things.”  Detective Stills cast a long look over the room.  “Sometimes helps to think in the original setting.”

                “Anything new to tell us?”  Gibbs raised an eyebrow. 

                “Nothing that my partner probably hasn’t told you already.”   Still’s phone beeped, and he checked it.   Sighing, he made a motion toward the door.  “If there’s nothing else, I…”

                “What were you going through her dresser for?”  Ziva challenged him.

                The man looked at her.  “Trying to match the lint at the crime scene to a particular garment.  If we know what she was wearing, it’ll help with the description.”

                Tony made a face of apparent puzzlement.  “And… how are you going to find the garment she’s WEARING in her dresser?”

                This question seemed to put the man at a stop for a moment.  “Look…” he said, spreading his hands.  “I don’t tell you how to do your job, don’t tell me how to do mine.”

                The team exchanged glances.  Ziva finally holstered her pistol.  Casting a quick glance around the room, Gibb’s gaze zeroed in on the bloodstain.  “This is where Raburn was found?”  He asked, pointing.

                “Yes sir.”  Stills nodded.  “Three shots… quite a lot of blood.  Took a number of samples for DNA, but there’s not much doubt whose it is.  Just got back from notifying the ex-wife, in fact.”

                “Ex-wife?”  Gibbs glanced up.

                “Didn’t Taylor tell you?  Raburn had a wife and kids.  She divorced him a couple years back, around the same time he was discharged from the Marines.  Lady took the house, kids…”  Stills shrugged “…everything, pretty much.”

                “She say why they broke up?” asked Tony.

                “Not... really.”  The man gave a light shake of his head.  “I got the feeling she didn’t like my questions.  Best I got out of her was ‘medical reasons,’ then she told me to leave.”

                “Medical reasons…”  Tony shook his head.  “That’s a new one.”

                Stills nodded in agreement.  “We’re… looking into the court record of the case.  Medical history too.  Should find something.”

                “Who lives next door here?”  Gibbs returned to studying the blood stain.

                The detective pulled out his phone and consulted it.  “A Mr.Rambus, accountant, across the hall.  He was on sleep medication and didn’t hear anything.  Next door is Mr. Throgmorton.  Retired contractor.  Heard three shots but couldn’t get to the door in time due to his bad leg.”

                “Three?”  Pointing at the back wall, Tony noted, “I can see five holes just from here.”

                “Raburn was using a silencer.”  A smile twisted the corner of Still’s mouth.  “Probably why he was such a bad shot.”

                Something about the man’s jocularity seemed to rile Ziva. “What about the other neighbors?”

                “A… Ms. Caroline Babbage lives on the other side,” answered the detective, again glancing at his phone.  “A graduate student, landlord says she’s on vacation.  Mr. and Mrs. Langley, the neighbors upstairs, heard the shots but couldn’t tell where they came from.  And the apartment downstairs is empty.”

                “So no witnesses.”  Gibbs huffed out in frustration.

 “That’s life,” answered the man, offering a shrug and a grin.  “Look, if you’re done, I need to get this downtown.”  He indicated the clear bag in his hand, containing a toothbrush, shampoo bottle, music CDs, hair barrettes, and a collection of dark clothing.  “Evidence.”

                “We’ll take that.”  Tony reached for the bag.

                “Course you do.”  The man gave a small grunt of annoyance as he handed it over.  “Feds.  Have to have their own specialists do everything.”

                A heavy silence fell over the group as it sunk in.  They had no specialist.  They had no Abby.

                “Let him take it.”  Gibbs nodded at Tony.  “It’ll be quicker than shipping everything back to Washington.”

                Shrugging, Tony handed the bag back over.  Stills accepted it and nodded to the others.  “Agents.”   He ducked out the door.

                There was a thoughtful pause in his absence.  Ziva stepped toward Gibbs.   “There’s something wrong with that detective.”

                “Easy, Ziva.”  Tony laughed at the woman.  “Just because the guy’s insanely fast on the draw doesn’t make him a suspect.”

                Gibbs shook his head.  “Notice how he didn’t react when he heard we were federal agents?”   

* * *

 

**OCT 26 13:01:35 PARKING LOT CAM 3**

                Just outside, ‘Detective Stills’ was walking rapidly toward a dark car parked next to the curb.  His hand went to his ear.  “Finch.”  He said.  “We need to work on our communication.”  A slight pause.  “No, I’ve got her things, but we have a problem.”  A glance back at the building.  “Her team’s here.”  Another pause, slightly longer.  “All right.  Keep her occupied while I do some more sniffing around.”  Getting into the car, he shut the door.  “We need to figure out who wants Abby dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story will first present things from the NCIS point of view, both because I imagine that's the show more are familiar with, but also because part of what I love about Person of Interest is how mysterious Reese and Finch always seem to outsiders and the people they're helping. But we'll get to the other side of things in a few chapters.


	3. Detective Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The NCIS team kicks their search into high gear as they learn there may have been two parties involved in Abby's kidnapping. But more troubling, "Detective Stills" may not be who he says he is.

 

                “Nice digs,” said Tony, glancing around the office space.  “Not as good as home, but… nice.”

                “Try not to get used to it.  It’s just a field office until we find Abby.”  Gibbs responded from the window.

                “Which, hopefully, will not take any great length of time,” nodded Ziva, seated at her new desk.

                McGee was staring somewhere past the machine on his desk.  “I hope she’s okay.”

                “She’d better be.”  Gibbs turned to face the others.  “She’s been missing 24 hours as of this morning.  I need to know what we have.  McGee!”

                “Right,” nodded the other, pulling himself out of whatever thoughts he was in.  A few clicks, and the massive TV set in the wall flickered to life.  “Well, based on ballistics and a survey of the room, the forensics team came up with a rough idea of what happened.  Raburn was standing here…”  McGee pointed, “…when the first shots hit him in the kneecaps.  That sent him to the ground, where he fired the two or three shots that lodged in the opposite wall.”  Dotted lines appeared on the room facsimile.  “At that point the other shoots him in the head, killing him instantly.”

                “Headshots are tricky.”  Tony mused.  “Given that Abby’s not a shooter…”

                “There was a third person in the room.”  Ziva concluded.

                Gibbs nodded.  “What do we know about him?”

                “His first shots—the ones to the kneecaps—were fired when he entered the room, here.”  McGee clicked a few keys and a colored figure rose up on the screen, aiming a pistol.  “We estimate his height to be a little over six feet—it’s hard to be exact, as we can’t be sure how he was holding the weapon.”

                “Definitely a lot taller than Abs.”  Gibbs answered.  “The second shots?”

                “Over here.”  A few more clicks, and another colored figure appeared.  “On the other side of the room.  These were fired at a height of maybe three feet, so he must have been crouching.”

                “Why?” mused Ziva.

                McGee shrugged.  “The lab boys figure he was ducking to avoid the shots that…”

                “No, why leave the door?”  Ziva pointed at the screen.  “If I’m firing from the door, I have the advantage of cover, I can duck back into the hallway… run back down the stairs if I have to.  Why would the second shooter ENTER the room before his assailant was dead?”

                “What was the second shooter doing there at all?”  Tony asked.  “Abs is tough, but that Raburn guy could’ve taken her alone.”

                “The second shooter is the one who DID kidnap her.”  Gibbs reminded them.

                “So… what was Raburn doing there?”

                Gibbs shrugged.  “Hard to say, without knowing more about Raburn.  DiNozzio!”

                “Right, boss.”  Tony came to attention.  “Got Raburn’s service records without much fuss.  He seems to have been a model soldier.  Got awards in Marksmanship, Hand-to-Hand combat, and Explosives.  Two tours in Afghanistan, received a Purple Heart for wounds sustained in combat, then was suddenly discharged a year later.”

                “The divorce?”

                “Same year he was discharged.  Pretty much like that Stills guy told us.  The court record cites, ‘danger to children,’ and such, but there’s just the one form… Raburn didn’t fight it.  And he gave her everything… the house, the car, the kid… even a monthly percentage of his pension.”  Tony shot his boss a meaningful look.  “Generally, when a guy goes along that easily, it’s because he feels guilty about something.”

                “Discharged, divorced, degenerate,” mused Gibbs.  “What did the NYPD tell you about his record?”

                Tony shrugged.  “Not much.  He’s clean and professional.  Word on the street is that he’s been involved in a lot of messes over the last three years, but the cops have only picked him up twice, and each time he was sprung by crime-lord lawyers.  Unfortunately, he wasn’t exactly a loyal member of any particular gang or organization… he just went wherever the money was.”

                “Raburn’s just a gun for hire.”  Gibbs nodded.  “So all that remains is the question of who hired him.  Ziva!”

“I formed a list of Abby’s known enemies and/or ex-boyfriends,” responded the ex-Mossad agent.  “Also I looked up various trials that Abigail participated in over the past five years, and the defendants involved in each case.  All but nine were nowhere near New York City at the time of the incident, and two of those have solid alibis.  Of the remaining seven, only three would have the funds necessary to hire a kidnapper of Raburn’s caliber.”

                Ziva tapped away at her computer and brought up three images.  “Michael Belafonte, a Brazilian official who Abby was instrumental in identifying as a participant in a violent crime two years ago.  Got off on a technicality.  Then there’s Ronald Tooms, a drug lord who was put away thanks to some forensic work that Abby conducted.  He’s in jail now, but…”  Ziva shrugged.

“Who’s our third suspect?”  Gibbs asked, gesturing at the picture.

“Lydia DeVries,” answered Ziva.  “Also a forensic specialist, apparently she and Abigail went to the same school and did not… get along.”

“Oh yeah, Abs talked about her.”  McGee frowned at the screen.  “She was in a kinda e-mail war with her… they’d been friends but there was a mess in college involving some article that Abby wrote criticizing Lydia’s position on…” he shook his head.  “…I forget the details.  I thought it was just a schoolgirl rivalry thing.”

“Rivalry, probably, schoolgirl, no.  Lydia is the heiress to the DeVries oil fortune, and rather wealthy.”  Ziva raised her eyebrows significantly.  “She’d have the resources to hire Raburn.”

“Still, kidnapping is an awfully strong response to a college rivalry,” frowned Tony.  “Besides, aren’t we all forgetting that Raburn isn’t the kidnapper?  He’s dead, we ought to be looking for the guy that shot him.”

                “Follow the dead rat’s trail, it’ll lead you to the snake.”  Gibbs answered, snagging his coat off the chair.  “Ziva, DiNozzio: get Raburn’s address and check out his place.  McGee, I want you to keep searching through Ab’s files.  Find out what she’s been up to the last couple days.”

                “Yes sir.”

* * *

 

“So you think Gibbs knows?”

                “Please.”  Tony snorted, head bent over his camera, aimed at Raburn’s desk.  There were rounded rubber casings on the edges _.  Click Click Click_.  “He’s GIBBS.  Of course he knows.”

                “Then why not say anything?” questioned Ziva, inspecting a row of guns they’d found in the mattress.  “I thought dating co-workers was against his Rules.”

                “Not just against his Rules, against the Agency’s rules.  Dating co-workers leads to workplace tensions, conflicts of interest, all that jazz.”  Opening the topmost drawer, Tony raised his eyebrows at the sheer volume of bandages and ointment.  _Click Click Click_.

                Turning from the guns, Ziva started to sort through the bedside dresser.  “So why not say anything?”

                “Well, A), McGee and Abs aren’t dating anymore, B), technically she’s not a co-worker, she’s a consultant, and C)…”  Tony shot Ziva a cocksure grin “…if there’s anyone in the NCIS who’s broken ‘Rule Number 12,’ it’s Gibbs.”

                Ziva snorted as she pulled out a turtleneck sweater.  “You’re no paragon of celibacy yourself, Tony.”

                “I can’t help women recognizing greatness.”  Next drawer.  Pension checks, medical bills, insurance claims.  _Click Click. Click._ “Besides, I’ve never slept with a co-worker.  Assets, yes, suspects, yes, other team leaders, yes, but not co-workers.  Co-workers I just fantasize about.”

                “Really?”  Eyes narrowing, Ziva turned to look at Tony.  “What kinds of fantasies?”

                “None involving Abby, if that’s what you’re asking.”

                “So you fantasize about me.”

                “Ha.”  Tony rolled his eyes at her.  “In your dreams.”

                “I believe it’s YOUR dreams we’re discussing at the moment.” 

                “You know what I don’t get,” said Tony, ignoring the jibe, “is WHY they broke up.  I mean, everyone knows how close Abs and McGeek are.  Heck, they went out before.  Then they finally get back together for… what, a month?  Three weeks?  And all of a sudden break it off again?”

                Ziva bit her lip as she turned back to her work.  “Well.  It does not seem to have been McGee’s idea.”  There were thousands of gloves in the uttermost drawer.

                “No—poor guy’s obviously devastated—but it’s hard to see Abs as the heartbreaking sort.”  Tony argued, holding up a paper to the light. “What do you think happened?”

                “I do not know,” answered Ziva, shaking her head.  “Whatever it was, Abby did not choose to… confide in me before she left for New York.”

                Tony _hmmed_ thoughtfully.  “Yeah, that timing can’t have been coincidental.  McGeek hasn’t said anything to me either.  Whatever it was, though it seems to have hit him pretty hard, and this whole… kidnapping thing can’t have helped matters.” 

                “You’re worried about him,” observed Ziva, slightly in surprise.

                Though he didn’t answer immediately, Tony did shrug.  “Probie’s a good kid, but he needs to express himself more.  Can’t be healthy for him to hold… things… in…”  His voice trailed off.

                Ziva looked over.  “You find something?”

                “Maybe.  Not sure.”  Tony frowned.  Turning around, he indicated the trashcan.  “Tell me, what’s a guy with no computer want with a wireless webcam?”

* * *

 

                “Electronics are hardly my area of expertise, but the taser always struck me as a fascinating little weapon.”  Dr. Mallard, in a gown, gloves, and cap, was puttering around the corpse laid out on the slab.  “You know, it was developed by a NASA researcher, Jack Cover, in 1974.  He called it the Thomas A. Swift Electronic Rifle, or…”

                “TASER.”  Gibbs nodded patiently.

                “Indeed.  Though the name has nothing to do with ‘lasers’ or the even more ridiculous ‘phasers,’ it’s roots are actually in science fiction, from the eponymous ‘Tom Swift,’ a pulp hero of the time, similar in style to your American Hardy Boys.” 

                A smile quirked the edge of Gibb’s mouth.  “I remember that guy.”

“I have never understood the appeal of the sci-fi genre,” mused the doctor.  Then, resuming his previous thread: “The taser was originally classified as a firearm, due to its use of gunpowder, but after Taser International introduced an air-powered model, the classification was dropped…”

                Long used to the Scottish doctor’s tendency to elaborate on unrelated topics, Gibbs studied the corpse on the slab.  Karl Raburn was a very hairy man, with a shaggy brown mullet and a slightly darker bushy beard under a practically flat nose.  His form, from what Gibbs could make out under the sheet, was large and muscular. 

But most striking was his skin.  It was dry and reddish, marked all over with countless lesions and blotchy roughened patches, with great bulbous growths in odd places.  A half-dozen scattered bandages marked recent scars.

                Dr. Mallard was still going.  “The taser is remarkably similar in operation to a cattle prod, albeit a small one fired as a projectile.  It works by disrupting the connection between muscles and the electric signals used by the brain.  Like…” the doctor gestured, “…static, in a telly connection.”

                “Duckie.”  Gibbs closed his eyes.  “I know what a taser is.  Abby’s been carrying one around for years.  So why didn’t she use it?”

                “She DID,” answered the doctor, with a slight hint of triumph.  “Observe.”  And, peeling back the rubber sheeting, he exposed the victim’s chest.  Slightly under his left collarbone was a little pinkish mark. 

                “That’s a taser mark?”  questioned Gibbs, studying the  scar.  “Where are the needles?”

                “It would seem that Abby had her taser when she opened the door and Mr. Raburn entered.”  Mallard explained.  “At such close range, her instinct was to shove the weapon…” he gestured, “…directly into his chest.  Without firing it.”

                “So the needles never deployed.”  Gibbs nodded. 

                “AND the taser remained in stun mode,” pointed out Mallard.  “THAT is key.  In stun mode, the muscles are not as severely affected, the taser relies solely on pain to subdue the suspect.”

                “So why didn’t it?”

                Mallard raised a finger.  “Because Mr. Raburn couldn’t feel a thing.”  He indicated the victim’s chest, also marked with the cracked lesions.  “You noticed, I assume, that the deceased had a… skin condition.”

                “Looks like a bit more than that.”

                “Oh, it is,” smiled the doctor.  “Poor Mr. Raburn here seems to have an acute case of Hansen’s disease, or as it is more biblically known…” he paused for emphasis, “…leprosy.” 

At Gibbs’ expression, he hastened to explain.  “Oh, it’s not contagious.  Well, normally it is, through respiratory particles.  Fortunately Mr. Raburn seems to have been treated, so even alive he would have presented no risk.”

                “Leprosy.”  Gibbs studied the man anew.  “Still uncurable?”

                “Treatable, but not curable.  Cancer is not the only disease that baffles modern science,” answered Mallard, cocking his head in sympathy.  “Doubtless it’s the reason behind Mr. Raburn’s sudden discharge from the army, as well for the dissolution of his marriage, the loss of his home…”  Mallard grimaced.  “Even after all this time, there is a strong stigma attached to the condition.  In addition to its ah… visible effect, the disease numbs and deadens the nerve endings, making the victim highly susceptible to injury.”

                “So no reaction when the taser hit him.”

                “AND no reaction when his kneecaps were shattered either.”  Pushing the sheet away from the body’s legs, Mallard indicated the neat holes.  “Oh, he would have collapsed still—the legs can’t support the body without the kneecaps—but the crippling pain that would have incapacitated a more sensitive man was nonexistent.”

                “Which is why he was still coherent enough to shoot.”  Gibbs nodded. 

                Mallard was studying the corpse on the table.  “It’s odd, you know, that he chose such a dangerous occupation.  A condition like this renders even normal life hazardous, being a gun for hire…”  A regretful shake of the head, “…it’s practically suicidal.”

“Yes it is,” agreed Gibbs quietly.  “Duckie, is there any way this shooting could have been a betrayal?”

                Dr. Mallard frowned in thought. “Mm, I hardly think so.”  He responded at length.  “All the shots are from the front, a traitor would have waited until his enemy’s back was turned.”

                “So it was a fight.”  Gibbs turned to look at the man’s face.  “But who was fighting, and why?”

 

* * *

                “The D-Link DCS-1000W is a versatile wireless internet camera with VGA quality resolution.”  Ziva read from the discarded box.  “An ideal solution for remote security monitoring or broadcasting of live events.”

                “Only if you have an internet browser to use it.”  Tony noted.  “And a router to actually connect to the thing.  And a modem.”

                “An internet café has all of those things,” pointed out Ziva, turning the box over in her hands.  “Well, not the router, but most hotels and apartments have those.  And if not, you could always rent a room next to the subject and connect to the camera from there.”

                Tony raised an eyebrow.  “You’ve used this stuff before?”

                “It’s a cheap and simple way to establish video surveillance on a target,” explained Ziva as she handed the box back.  “If Raburn was targeting Abby, perhaps he thought an inside source would be helpful.”

                “Taylor didn’t mention finding one at the crime scene.”  Tony’s eyes flitted back and forth as he thought.  “It’d have to be cleverly disguised and out of sight.”

                “Without Raburn to remove it, it’s probably still there.”  Ziva looked at Tony.

                “You go.”  Tony grabbed his jacket off the chair.  “Gibbs is going to want to see this immediately.  Take the car, I can grab a cab.”

                “Right.”  Ziva snatched up her gear.  “I’ll call you if I find anything.”

* * *

 

                “How’re we doing on the pictures?” asked Gibbs as he entered the office.

                At his desk, McGee bit his lip.  “Nothing yet.  We’ve got plenty of scenic views of New York City, but no kind of clue as to what happened.  The computer is searching through her images now for any face that pops up more than once.”

                Gibbs looked.  Images flickered across the screen.  Abby smiled out at him from a hundred frames, sometimes at arm’s length, sometimes freakishly close and fishbowled, sometimes at a respectable distance.  In all of them she looked her happy, cheerful self, dressed up in her black jacket, long stockings, pigtails, black lacy parasol, and all.

                “She looks… very happy.”  McGee noted.  There was just a slight hitch in his voice.

                Gibbs blinked.  “Go back.”

                McGee did.

                “One more.  Yes, there.”  Gibbs stepped closer to the screen.  “Zoom in on that man in the top-left corner.”

                The image blew up to disclose a tall, silver-haired man in a dark suit. He was quite some distance behind Abby and appeared to be looking in a wholly different direction, but Gibbs could still recognize him.  “Stills.”

McGee blinked.  “Who?”

 “The detective that met us at the crime scene yesterday.”  Gibbs frowned. 

                “Could just be a random coincidence, boss?”

                Turning, Gibbs looked at the man.  “How long you been in crime investigation, McGee?”

                “Um…”  McGee shrugged.  “Eleven years?”

                “And you still believe in coincidences?”  Gibbs turned back to the screen.  “Enlarge pictures 042, 079, and 103.”

                The pictures expanded.  Abby in Central Park.  Abby standing next to the Chrysler Building.  Abby about to bite into a massive hotdog at a restaurant.

                There was Stills.  Behind a newspaper in the park.  Leaning against the railing at the Chrysler.  Back turned to the camera in the restaurant.  His face was just obscured enough to fool the software, but there was no mistaking his silver hair.

                “Why would a cop be following Abby?”  McGee asked.

                “If he is a cop.”  Gibbs brought up his phone.  “Log into the NYPD database, bring up any info you can find on this ‘Stills.’  I need to talk to Taylor.”

* * *

 

“Now…”  Ziva stood in the middle of Abby’s trashed apartment, looking around her contemplatively.  “If I was monitoring a target… where… would I…”  Her eyes flitted back and forth.

                Most convenient would be a harmless knick-knack, planted in the room out in the open, exactly where no one would look.  But all the trinkets she could see were rather obviously Abby’s.  There was a shattered snow globe of the Chrysler building that she didn’t recognize, but it was too small to hide a webcam.

                Option two would be to stick something in the smoke detector or the bedside clock.  Ziva had already been through both, and neither had anything more than such an appliance was supposed to have.

                What that left, then, was the heating and air conditioner vents, which was what she was investigating now.  Loosening the last screw with her knife, Ziva pried the cover off and smirked.  Inside the shaft was the expected webcam, its small wireless antenna tacked up next to it.

                “Agent David.”  The low, rumbling voice behind her made her whip around, a hand already on her gun.  A curious-looking Detective Stills leaned against the doorframe, studying her.  “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

                Ziva rolled her eyes.  Men.  “What are you doing here?”  She asked, reaching into the vent and plucking out the camera. 

                “Much the same as you, from the looks of things.”  Stills peered around her at the camera.  “Looks like Raburn was doing some extra homework on his target.”

                “Looks like.”  Ziva nodded.  “There’s no room on the camera to record anything, but if Raburn was accessing this remotely, there should be a video archive online.  Might be able to show us who the second kidnapper is.”

                Stills frowned.  “Second kidnapper?”

                “The one who shot Raburn.”  Ziva clarified.  “Obviously he didn’t know about the camera, or he would have taken it with him.  This camera covers the door…” she pointed.  “…it should have gotten a good view of the kidnapper’s face.”

                “You’d need a local network to run that camera.”  Stills noted.

                “My guess is the empty apartment downstairs,” said Ziva, stuffing the webcam into a bag.  “Easy to break in and wire into the cables.”

                “Simple enough.  And no paper trail.”  Stills agreed, looking into the vent.  “Also a good listening post and an easy way to keep tabs on her.  If you hear she’s leaving, just wait down the stairs for her to pass.  She’s coming back home, just follow her up to this floor and go into the room.  Raburn had the technical training to hack into the wiring, he could have had quite a setup downstairs.”

                “My… thoughts exactly.”  A surprised Ziva agreed.

                “Seems a waste to get a warrant for an empty room,” mused the detective.  He gestured to the door.  “Shall we?”

* * *

 

                “Taylor’s never heard of Stills, says there’s no one on his team with that name.”  Gibbs swept back into the office.  “Talk to me, McGee.”

                “There WAS a detective named Stills, from Narcotics,” reported McGee.  A very different face, a bald, squarish one with a defiant leer and a small scar filled the screen.  “But he disappeared sometime last year.  Matter of fact they’re still looking for him, he’s wanted in connection with an investigation involving a corrupt ADA.”  McGee clicked around the screen a bit.  “Last year Assistant District Attorney Diane Hanson was exposed for corruption.  Stills was part of a narcotic team she used to shoot up drug deals and take the money.  Then she’d frame known felons for the murders and walk them to the jail.”

                “Very thorough.”  Gibbs nodded.  “So Stills disappeared, what about the rest of them?”

                “All of Stills’ former partners are in jail, along with Hanson, BUT…” McGee pulled up some documents, “…their statements line up pretty well.  All of them claim they were ‘framed’ by a third party—‘a guy in a suit’—were the exact words.  One of them gave a description to a sketch artist.”

                A click, and up came a lean face with a calm expression and silver temples.

“Damnit.”  Gibbs hissed.

“Not hard to guess what happened to Stills,” McGee observed.

“No,” agreed Gibbs.  “NYPD probably swept all this under the carpet, so Still’s name was never brought up in the news.  They probably figured he just ran, so they never flagged his badge.”

“Even if they had, there’s a lot of different ‘Stills’ in New York,” McGee pointed out.  “Just in searching the database, I found two Patrolmen Stills and one Captain Stills.”

“This guy’s probably been flashing the badge all over the city.”  Standing back from the desk, Gibbs rubbed his chin.  “Get in touch with Tony and Ziva, tell…”

                “Tell me what, boss?”  Tony asked, coming up behind Gibbs. 

                “DiNozzio.”  Gibbs looked at the younger agent, faintly puzzled.  “You playing hooky?”

                “Not in the least.”  Tony smiled, holding up the box.  “Got something here you’re going to want to take a look at.”  Frowning at the screen, he asked, “What’s all that stuff?”

                “A problem.  Where’s Ziva?” asked Gibbs, already punching a text into his phone.

                “Went to the crime scene.  Why?”

                Gibb’s phone chose that exact moment to ring, and he held up a finger to silence DiNozzio as he raised it to his ear.  “Special Agent Gibbs, NCIS.”

                The last voice he expected to hear exploded excitedly into his ear.  “ _Gibbs!_ ”

                There had been a handful of times in Gibbs’ life when he’d been struck speechless.  “…Abs?”  He managed.  Tony and McGee stared at him, equally shocked.

                “ _Yeah!”_   Abby’s voice was cheerful, unhurried.  _“I just saw you guys on the news!  Ohmigosh, I am so glad you’re…”_

                Without warning, the line went dead.  Gibbs stared at his phone for all of two seconds before throwing it at McGee.  “Trace that call, NOW!”

* * *

 

                “Where did you learn to break into an apartment?” asked Ziva, watching with amusement as the man opened the door.

                Detective Stills shrugged modestly.  “You talk to enough crooks, you pick up a few tricks.  Want a quick lesson?”

                “I KNOW how to pick a lock, thank you.”  Ziva rolled her eyes as she shone the light about the apartment.  “Just… not from police training.”

                “Doesn’t look like Raburn was ever here,” observed Stills, running a finger through the dust on the kitchen counter.

                “Mm.”  Ziva agreed.  “But wireless networks can reach for quite a ways.  He could have used any of the empty rooms in this building.”

                “Or any of the unoccupied ones.  Or even a few of the occupied ones.”  Stills grimaced.  “One of her neighbors could be in on it, using their network to access the camera.  I suppose we could start with the near neighbors, figure out which ones USE a wireless network, investigate their alibis…”

                “Detective.”  Ziva said suddenly.  “Who was the next-door neighbor… the university student?”

                “Caroline Babbage?”

                “The landlord said she was on vacation?”  At Stills’ nod, she said: “It’s October.  School is still in session.”

                Stills froze for all of two seconds, which was more than enough time for Ziva to run out of the apartment and charge up the stairs.  Stills caught up just as she was picking the lock to the room.  “Guess you do know how to do that.”  He grinned, but the smile quickly faded.  “Babbage…”  He mused.  “I wonder…”

                “What?”  Ziva asked, opening the door.

                “Nothing.  Just an… unpleasant thought.”  Stills followed her in.

                There was no dust in this apartment, but there was no furniture either.  The rooms were completely bare and empty, apart from a solitary table and a few chairs.

                “Bit sparse for a university student,” commented Stills grimly.

                “Especially one planning to come back.”  Ziva agreed.  She studied the table.  “There’s an outlet and a cable modem in the wall right there, and it’s all close to the wall adjoining Abby’s.  Someone could set up a listening post here and access the camera with perfect ease.”

                “Someone with blonde hair,” noted Stills, examining the chair.  He lifted the strand for Ziva to see.  “I’m liking this less and less.  She’s cleared out completely, no trace or anything.”

                “Maybe.  Maybe not.”  Still bending over the table, Ziva squinted hard at the varnish.  “Looks like she left an impression of some sort… could be a serial number of some kind.”

                Interest clearly aroused, Stills came around the table to examine it.  Taking out his phone, he snapped a quick picture.  “Impressive, Agent David.”  He said, putting the phone away.

                Despite herself, Ziva felt a grin quirk her face.  There was something about this man… “Thank you.”  She nodded.

                “Your agency come up with any leads?”  He looked up at her, grey eyes calm.  “I’m sure the NYPD could provide some help.”

                Ziva’s phone buzzed in her pocket.  “I’m sorry, I’m not authorized to discuss cases.”  She answered him, digging her handheld from her pocket.  “One moment.”

                It was a text, from Gibbs.  **STILLS IS A FAKE.**

                Ziva reacted almost instantly, whipping around, pistol in hand, but Stills’ hand came out of nowhere and slapped the firearm away.  Ziva let it go, focusing instead on the gun already being drawn from Stills’ coat—a Glock 19, her frenzied mind noted.  A swift kick, and the weapon went flying.

There was maybe half a second as the two subtly shifted into attack stances, and then it began.

Ziva dashed forward, aiming a series of kicks at the man.  Hands flashing out in defense, the man retreated back—yet not fast enough, as one struck him square in the chest.  A small grunt of pain escaped him, but he dodged her follow-up attack, caught her arm and tried to twist it.  She countered the hold and aimed for a sharp strike at his eyes, but he dove under the attack, his arm sweeping back up with a sharp chop.  She whipped her head back, but the chop caught the end of her chin, sending pain shooting through her jaw. 

Purely on instinct, her knee shot up, smashing Stills in the side of the face and sending him reeling away to crash on the floor.  Ziva drew back, but dared not dive for her weapon or take her eyes off the man.

                The man formerly known as Detective Stills picked himself up, feeling at his jaw.  “You’re MOSSAD.”  He remarked.

                “You’re CIA.”  Ziva echoed in disbelief.

                A smile quirked the man’s face.  “Not exactly.”

                “Who are you?”  Ziva shot back at him.  “Did you kidnap Abby?  What’s your interest here?”

                “That’s a lot of questions, Agent David.  Surely you know better than to expect any kind of answer.”  The man was fully up now, hands raised in a Krav Maga stance. 

                Ziva gritted her teeth.  “Where’s Abby?”

                “Safe.”

* * *

 

                The battering ram crashed against the door and black-suited SWAT officers swarmed into the tiny room, rifles raised and ready.  It took all of five seconds for them to sweep the room.  “Clear!”

                Tony and Gibbs, outfitted in bulletproof vests, both holstered their pistols and took in the room.  Tables and chairs upended, a smashed television, sheets and blankets thrown into disarray and strewn all over the floor.

                Tony bent and flicked back the sheets to expose a crumpled, black lacy umbrella.  His eyes went up to meet Gibbs.  “She was here all right, boss.”

                “Get down to the front desk.  Find out who checked out this room and what they did.  Get their surveillance footage, housing records, visitor list, employee records, building code, whatever they have.”  Gibbs snapped open his phone.  “McGee!  Call up Taylor and tell him to get his team down here right away, there’s a room they need to sweep.”

                “Sir,” called an officer.  Gibbs glanced over to see the man pointing at a half-smashed taser lying on the floor.

                “Tell them to hurry.”  Clicking the phone off, Gibbs punched in a new number, frowned, and snapped the phone shut.

                Tony reappeared at the door.  “Boss…”  He stopped when he saw Gibbs’ face.  “What’s going on?”

                “Ziva’s still not picking up.”  Gibbs strode past him.  “Take over things here, I’m going back to that apartment.”

* * *

 

 “Listen, you’re obviously capable, and it’s been a while since I’ve had to take down a MOSSAD agent.”  Stills said reasonably, as he and Ziva circled each other.  “I don’t suppose there’s any chance you’d let me have that webcam and leave peacefully?”

“None whatsoever,” growled Ziva in reply.

The man tilted his head, giving another light smile.  “It’s for a good cause.  Promise.”

Ziva’s hand flew to her belt, whipping out her knife as she charged forward.  She jabbed out, slashed.  The man whipped back, dodged left and right, continually retreating as she slashed at empty air.  On the fourth slash he threw up a hand and grabbed her wrist, twisting. 

The knife clattered to the floor but already Ziva was lashing out with her other hand, her left hook smashing into the man’s face before he could throw up an adequate defense.  The punch sent him back a few steps, but before she could adequately follow up the strike he was back in position, hands up and ready.

Then he attacked.  His hands moved in a flurry, a lashing beat of chops and strikes.  Ziva struggled to match his barrage, blocking, dodging, giving ground.  She deflected a high blow to the side and dashed under it to charge into the man, but he sidestepped her like a bullfighter, throwing an arm around her neck as she passed and pulling back into a chokehold.

Ziva tried to duck down and throw him over her back, but he was too heavy and had the advantage of leverage.  She grappled at the arm, straining to pull it loose.  Nothing.  Vainly she kicked back with his legs, but his stance prevented her from hitting anything critical.  Spots swam before her eyes, and she gasped for air.

“You’re good.”  She heard the man say.  “Too good, really, and if I was still working for the CIA, I’d be practically required to take you down, just to remove you from the game.” 

Ziva strained at the arm pressing on her throat, but she could feel herself growing weaker.  The black spots were becoming splotches, everything was blurry.

“I’d really rather not do this a second time.”  The man’s voice rasped in her ear.  “Because honestly, I’m not sure how it would turn out.  So please understand: I’m not your enemy.  An enemy would kill you. ”

  Blackness pressed in on her vision, her arms felt like jelly. 

“I could have killed you, Officer David.  But I didn’t, because I’m not your enemy.  Please remember that when you wake up, and believe me when I say: This is all for a good cause.”

Darkness flooded over her, and she knew no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Felt a little bit guilty about John beating Ziva, but the PoI series presents Reese as almost superhumanly fast, and of course here, he has the advantage of surprise.
> 
> This chapter was my first real shot at writing a procedural crime case fic, and it was surprisingly fun to put together. The taser stuff especially... I remember Tom Swift.
> 
> Kudos are fun, but comments are more helpful.


	4. Character References

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The NCIS team goes into high-drive to collect details on the eponymous "Man in the Suit."

                “No, he was CIA, or used to be.”  Ziva insisted, sitting on the back end of the ambulance, wincing as a paramedic bandaged up her head.  “I recognize the technique.”

                “Not usual for a spook to go solo,” mused Gibbs, looking back at the apartment.  “If he was still with the agency, should have had at least two other to back him up.

                Ziva nodded.  “He said he was no longer working with the CIA.  A rogue agent.”

                Gibbs let out a little huff.  “Still doesn’t explain what he’d want with Abs.  Took a big risk coming back to the crime scene, he must’ve been looking for something.”

                “The webcam,” suggested Ziva.  “It’s not anywhere inside, is it?”

                “No, nor his gun.”  Gibbs passed a hand over his face.  “Picked up some prints, but if this guy is from the CIA that’s not going to do jack squat.”

                Ziva was staring at the ground.  “I am sorry, Gibbs.  That webcam was our greatest lead, and now, thanks to me, we have lost it.”

                Turning to face her, Gibbs gave a little shake of his head.  “Our greatest lead was that phonecall to headquarters.   The webcam probably had more to do with Raburn than with ‘Stills,’ and Stills is the one we need to focus on.  Thanks to you, we know he’s ex-CIA.”  Gibbs lightly clapped her on the arm.  “Good work.”

                She snorted, but was unable to completely hide the glow of pride that Gibbs’ words brought out.  “He still beat me.”

                “Considering he had the advantage of surprise and intel, I’d say you did pretty well.”  Gibbs assured her.  “There’s always a next time.  In the meantime, you need to rest.”

                “I don’t need paramedics,” snapped Ziva.  “He barely touched me.  This whole affair is a waste of time, we should be out there looking for him!”

                “Ziva.  Rest.”  Gibbs ordered. 

* * *

 

                “According to the front desk, our guy checked out four hotel rooms,” reported McGee, walking up to Tony.  They were standing in the hallway of the hotel, with a small army of police officers coming in and out of the suspect rooms.  “Left soon after, but someone kept ordering room service.”  He handed over a sheaf of files.  “I got the receipts, but I can tell you right now… the credit numbers are useless.  They trace back to a dummy corporation and then disappear.”

                Tony whistled.  “Limitless, untraceable funds,” he muttered, looking through the files.  “How does a crook have stuff like that when we can’t even get a decent meal without a requisition order?”

                “At least we know this isn’t about ransom.”  McGee shrugged.

                “Given the NCIS pay rate, pretty sure we knew that already.”  Tony answered, still flipping through the pages. “Well, if the credit’s useless, knowing what the guy’s digestive system is like isn’t going to do a whole lot… for…”  Tony’s voice trailed off.  “Caf-Pow?  They serve that here?”

                “No, actually,” answered McGee, a light smirk on his face.  “I noticed that too and talked to the staff—apparently they kept having to go out and grab it on the street.  Cost extra, but the cardholder didn’t seem to mind.”

                “With an account like that, I bet not.”  Tony’s forehead wrinkled in thought.  “Still.  What kind of captor pays extra just to keep his prisoner awake and caffeinated?”

                “Same kind who cares about her dental hygiene,” said Detective Taylor, walking up with a clear plastic bag.  He held it up to indicate the toothbrush inside.  “This your teammate’s?”

                “Yes,” nodded McGee, taking the bag and giving it a quick study.

                Tony took it from him.  “I’ve seen this before.”  He muttered.  “Stills had it in his bag the day we bumped into him at the apartment.”

                “You’re saying he risked capture just to get Abs’ toothbrush?”  McGee’s forehead wrinkled in confusion

                “And hair products and clothes.” Taylor jerked his head in the direction of the room.  “The bathroom is full of stuff like this, and the dresser is stuffed full of black fabric.”

                Tony just shrugged.  “Abby can get a bit… obsessive about her stuff.  Maybe our guy just wanted her to shut up.”

                “You have a suspect?”  Taylor’s eyebrows arched upwards.

                “Eh, more like a person of interest.  Can’t tie him to anything just yet.  Although…”  Turning to McGee, Tony asked, “You have any luck with that surveillance footage?”

                Smiling, McGee held up an iPad tablet.  “MUCH better luck.”  He handed it over.  “Camera shows ‘Stills’ arriving at the hotel at 5am two nights ago.”

                “Barely an hour after the cameras cut out at Abby’s place,” muttered Tony, watching the video.  As he watched, a couple approached the desk and spoke with the receptionist.  The man was tall and lean, with a familiar suit and silver hair. 

                But Tony wasn’t watching him.  All his attention was reserved for the raincoat-wrapped girl he had his arm around.

“Abs.”  Tony breathed.

                McGee nodded, all his previous delight gone.  “She looks… scared.”  He noted.

                “Yeaaaah...”  Tony was frowning  “Still, if they’d just come from the shootout at her apartment, I imagine she would be.  And look at this.”  He tapped the screen to zoom in on her face.

                McGee craned his neck to see.  “She… keeps glancing toward the door.  Hoping for a rescue?”

                But Tony just shook his head.  “More likely watching for an attack.  Look at them.  Yeah, he’s got his arm around her, but she’s _holding onto_ him.  Whatever Abs is scared of, it’s not this guy.”

                “So… what?  Two sides trying to kidnap Abs, one of them tricks her into thinking they’re police officers or something?” 

                “And they keep getting her goodies to keep her thinking that.”  Tony nodded grimly.  “Then she sees Gibbs on the news, she tries to call him, and just like that…”

                “Party’s over.”  McGee finished.  “They smash her phone, drop the act, and spirit her off somewhere else.”

                “She probably fought back, if these are any indication,” interjected Taylor, holding up another bag, containing a pair of shattered spectacles.  “Looks like they were knocked off in a struggle, they were smashed under the table.”

                “Definitely not Abby’s.”  McGee observed, looking at the bag.

                “But not our mystery man’s either,” frowned Tony.  “Probably a guard of some kind.  He’d be the one who took Abs elsewhere.  Got the feeds from when they left, Probie?”

                McGee shook his head.  “The whole system crashed a little after Abby made the call.”

                “That’s convenient.”  Tony sighed, passing the iPad over to Taylor.

                Taylor studied the screen and the man on it.  “You know…”  He mused, “…this guy could be Carter’s man.”

                Tony glanced at the New York cop.  “Who now?”

                Shaking himself from a stray thought, Taylor handed back the iPad.  “A detective in the homicide task force I’ve worked with on occasion… a Joss Carter.  Good cop.  Just recently, she’s been working on the trail of an underworld vigilante, a ‘man in a suit.’”

                Tony frowned.  “That’s… not a lot to go on, buddy.”

                “You’d have to talk to Carter to get the full story.”  Taylor shrugged.  “She’s got his prints and DNA, they just can’t match it to anyone.  All I’ve ever heard is that he’s a tall guy with grey hair who walks around in a suit and has a knack for being in the wrong place at the right time.”

                “Hard to argue with that coincidence.”  Tony shrugged, looking toward McGee, who was checking over his phone.  “Tell you what, Probie, how about you and I… Probie?  Hey, McGee!”

                “What?”  McGee glanced up from his phone, eyes wide.

                Tony eyed him with faint worry.  “You want to head down to this Carter and get some answers?”

                “Ah….”  Stuffing his phone in his pocket, McGee glanced around a bit.  “Ah… no can do. Just got an update from the lab.  I need to go back and check it out.”

                “Fine.”  Tony rolled his eyes.  “Do your geek thing.  I’ll swing by and pick up Ziva, she’s better at scaring people into talking anyway.”

* * *

 

                “Pleasure to meet you, Special Agent Gibbs.”  A large, beagle-like face studied him intently as the FBI gave his hand a firm shake.   “Heard a great deal about your work.”

                Gibbs simply nodded.  “Heard some about yours, too, Agent Donnelly.  Friend of mine in the Bureau, Agent Taylor, speaks very highly of you.”

                “Anything I can do to help...”  Donnelley responded, spreading his hands, “…just say the word.”

                “What can you tell me about ex-CIA agents in New York.”

                Donnelley gave just the tiniest smirk.  “I was hoping that was what you’d ask.  You’re talking about the ‘man in the suit,’ correct?” Gesturing to Gibbs to follow, he made for a door.  “I heard about what happened to your agent.  It definitely sounds like him.”

                “Who is he?”

                “Well, you’re is correct that he’s ex-CIA.”  Donnelly passed through the door, ushering Gibbs into a room lined with screens and tall evidence boards, marked with thousands of surveillance photos.  Everyone had the same man on it—tall, silver hair, striking suit.  “Unfortunately, that means nearly every record on him has been pulled by the agency, which means all we have thus far is what we’ve been able to glean ourselves.  He’s cunning, deadly, and mysterious.  I’ve been after him for a year now—nearly caught him once or twice, but he seems to always have a way out.”

                “I heard that.”  Gibbs nodded.  “Has a knack for being in the wrong place at the right time.”

                “Something like that.  His prints have shown up at over twenty crime scenes.  Some of them go back to 2002, but just in the last year…”  Donnelley shook his head as he handed Gibbs a thick file.  “…he’s had his fingers in practically every major crime in the city.  Frankly, it’s not a surprise he’s involved with your kidnapping.”

                Gibbs flipped the file open.  A score of pictures jumped out at him—Fuzzy, half-focused, unclear pictures, but nonetheless definitely the same man he’d seen at Abby’s apartment.   In one picture, he was escorting a woman into a hotel.  In another, he was firing at a SUV.  Another showed him just exiting an alleyway.  Fingerprint profiles peeked between pages of crime-scene descriptions, but no names, no addresses, and no contacts.

“As best as we can tell, he went rogue in 2010… that’s around when his prints pop up in New York City, or at least, the first time, that they’re NOT covered up by the Agency.”  Donnelly grimaced.  “No idea why he came to New York, but he’s been offering his services to different ‘independent contractors’ since then.”

                Gibbs picked through the photos.  “Most recent employer?”

                “A man named Carl Elias,” answered Donnelley, drawing the relevant paper from the file.  A rotund, balding man with glasses smiled mildly at the camera.  “Former schoolteacher turned ganglord.  Made a play for the New York underworld last year.  When the Russian mob sent a kill squad after him, they ran into our Man in the Suit.”

                “It says here that a Detective Carter was the one to take Elias down, finally.”  Gibbs looked up from the file.  “The same Carter who started the manhunt for this guy?”

“She was tracking the employee and ended taking down the boss,” nodded Donnelley.  “An excellent cop in a lot of ways, she’s been a great asset to the FBI.”

“Definitely need to get in touch with her, then.”  Gibbs muttered, closing the file.

 “I’ll give her contact information to your people,” said Donnelly.  “Elias hasn’t been on the streets in a year; however…” he grimaced, “…that doesn’t mean he’s any less in control of the streets, unfortunately.  He’d easily have the resources to arrange a kidnapping.”

                “Any major rivals?” questioned Gibbs.  “We think there may have been two factions involved in the kidnapping.”

                Donnelley frowned in thought.  “Elias killed most of New York’s gang leaders… I believe there was one survivor, but so far as I know he’s mostly kept his head down and played along.  You’d need to speak to someone in the NYPD Organized Crime division.”

                “Any chance he might be striking out on his own?”

                Donnelley responded with a shake of his head.  “So far as we can tell, he’s a soldier.  Follows orders without question, but not much initiative.  If he left Elias’ agency, he’d find a new boss.”

                “Only one way to find out,” shrugged Gibbs, grabbing his coat.  “Go ask Elias ourselves.”

* * *

 

                “Can I help you sweetheart?”

                Ziva closed her eyes and took a deep breath before turning and smiling brightly at the overweight, greasy detective who’d spoken.  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

                “NCIS.”  Tony interposed for her, flashing his badge.  “We’re here to speak to a Detective Joss Carter.”

                “You and every other agency in Washington,” grunted the curly-haired man.  “You guys some new kind of government auditing service?”

                Tony resisted the urge to roll his eyes.  “Look, we’re here looking into the disappearance of a team member, and we think she might have information that would be helpful to the case.”

                Shaking his head, the man turned to Ziva.  “Carter’s on her way back from a case she’s working, so she’ll be here any minute.  In the meantime, could you give me an idea of what you’re looking for?  I might be able to help.”

                Ziva arched a skeptical eyebrow.  “And you are?”

                “Detective Lionel Fusco.”  Fusco reached forward and shook her unwilling hand, offering a small grin.  “Been Carter’s partner for about a year now.  If it’s about a case…”

                “You familiar with her work on this man?”  Tony produced the photo of ‘Stills.’

                Fusco’s face adopted a somewhat more resigned expression.  “Oh, him.”  He sighed.  “Eh, not exactly what you’d call familiar.  Carter keeps that one pretty close to her chest.  I’ve heard a couple things, of course, but not much.”

                “Really.”  Tony and Ziva exchanged glances.  “What can you tell us?”

                Fusco seemed slightly uneasy, and he glanced around the room before answering.  “Guy’s a… vigilante of sorts.  Likes to take the law into his own hands.  Good, too, never leaves anything more than a few prints.  If it weren’t for witness accounts, we wouldn’t even have a description of him.”

                “Witness accounts?”  Ziva’s eyes narrowed.  “He leaves witnesses?”

                “Sweetheart, that’s about all he leaves.  There’s maybe about a handful of bodies associated with him.”  Fusco chuckled a little.  “I mean, the guy sure likes to shoot people in the kneecaps, causes plenty of damage, but even then, he rarely kills anyone.”

                “Kneecaps.  That sounds about right,” nodded Tony.

                Ziva frowned.  “Still.  It does not sound like the CIA.  And I doubt the former Detective Stills got away with a bullet in the leg.”

                “Stills?”  Perhaps Tony was getting too suspicious, but there was something almost… guarded about Fusco’s reaction to the name.    “What’s that creep got to do with anything?”

                “You knew Detective Stills?” asked Tony, watching the man carefully.

                “We… worked a few cases together.  Had breakfast a couple times.”  Fusco rubbed the back of his neck.  “Thought he disappeared after his team got busted up.”

                Again Tony and Ziva exchanged glances.  “Well, perhaps you can be of more help than I thought.”  Ziva allowed.

                “Sure, anything to…”  Fusco turned around as the door to the station slammed.  A pert, African-American woman stood in the entrance, arms crossed and eyes glaring. “There’s my partner,” grinned Fusco.  “Got some feds over here to talk to you, Carter!”  He called.

                Tony leaned closer to Ziva as the detective approached.  “So I’m thinking we split up and take them separately.”  He muttered.  “You take the guy and I’ll take the girl.”

                “Nice try.  You question the fat one.”  Ziva murmured back.

                “You owe me.”

* * *

 

                The dreaded Carl Elias was surprisingly short and rotund, with a carefully benign expression hidden behind big round glasses.  What Gibbs found really interesting, though, was how unassuming the man was.  He seemed so incredibly _normal_.  Yet the ease and confidence with which he looked across the table at them bespoke this man’s power, even here in the prison.  “It must be a special day.”  He remarked casually.  “TWO federal agents.  To what do I owe the honor?”

                “Abigail Sciuto.”  Gibbs slid her picture across the table.  “Ring any bells?”

                Elias shook his head as he picked up her picture.  “Sorry, Agent Gibbs.  What is she?  Dead, missing, raped?”

                “You tell me,” replied Gibbs evenly.  “She disappeared from her apartment three days ago.  Guess you didn’t realize she was a federal agent.”

                “Means it’s a federal crime, Elias,” indicated Donnelly from the door.  “Means a death penalty if she’s dead.”

                “I’m in prison.  What part of that makes you think I was involved?”  answered Elias, sharing a scornful smile with the guard at the door.

                Gibbs shrugged.  “You’re a smart guy.  Are you trying to say none of your old pals come to visit, tell you what’s going on in the city?”

                “None that mentioned kidnapped girls.”  Elias responded.  His head cocked slightly.  “Girls get kidnapped in New York all the time, Agent Gibbs.  Talk to your friends at Organized Crime, they’ll tell you I never had anything to do with that part of the business.  So why are you coming to me with this now?”

                “Because your bodyguard was the one who grabbed her.”  Donnelly answered, stepping forward and slapping “Detective Stills’” picture in front of Elias.

                That seemed to actually catch Elias off-guard.  He looked at the photo, at Donnelly, back at the picture, across at Gibbs.

                A smile quirked the edge of his mouth.  “This man?”  He asked, pointing at the picture.  “This man is the one who kidnapped your girl, Agent Gibbs?”  He let out a little laugh.  “Well, well.  Small world.”

                Gibbs and Donnelly exchanged glances.  “We know he works for you, Elias.”

                “If only,” smiled Elias, sliding the picture back across the table and leaning back in his chair.  “Trust me, if he was working for me, I’d never have seen the inside of this place.”

                “But you know him.”  Donnelley pressed.

                Elias shrugged.  “Not to speak of.”

                “You have perfect strangers save you from Russian hit squads a lot?”  Gibbs raised an eyebrow.

                “Just the one time.”  Elias was still smiling.  “It’s a scenario I try to avoid.  In that particular case, John just happened to be…”

                “…in the wrong place at the right time.”  Gibbs finished grimly.  He was getting tired of that phrase.

                “’John,’ hmm?”  Donnelley’s eyebrow’s arched upwards.  “Well, that’s something.  Does ‘John’ have a last name?”

Elias shook his head in amusement.  “You know, it’s really wonderful how law enforcement is always the last group to know what’s going on.  As it happens, though, he never told me his last name.  I got the feeling he didn’t give it out a lot.”

“Anything else you want to tell us?”  asked Gibbs.

“He’s talented.  Resourceful.  Deadly.  Persistent, too.  But then…” Elias said, smirking, “…you probably knew that already.”

“Who does he work for, if not for you?”

Elias closed his eyes.  “Come, agents, I need to leave SOME work for you to do.”

“You haven’t told us anything.”  Gibbs gritted out.

“I hardly think you need me to point out that even a talented operator like John needs a bankroller of some kind.”  Elias snorted, eyes still closed.  “I’ll tell you this:  I tried to hire John.  I tried to get him to stay out of my way.  He refused.  So either John’s employer is a VERY wealthy man, or he’s in it for another reason entirely.”

“Like what?”

Elias shrugged.  “Love, revenge, guilt, drugs.  Take your pick.  But if I were you, Agent Gibbs…” said Elias, opening his eyes, “…I’d start looking for your girl—very hard.  Because if John’s after her, she’s in great danger.”

* * *

 

                “All the information is in the files,” repeated Detective Carter.  “Sorry I can’t be more of a help, but I really don’t have any further information to give you.”

                “Nothing?”  Ziva raised her eyebrows.  “You mean to tell me you have nothing to add to these official accounts?”

                Carter gave her a look.  “I know how to write a police report, Miss David.  I’m not exactly in the habit of leaving stuff out.”

                “I do not mean to imply otherwise, but reports are summaries.  By their nature, they leave things out.  Is there anything you can tell me about the…”  Ziva picked up a file, “…evidence locker robbery case?   Any private reflections on the case?”

                Carter seemed to give her answer careful thought.  “The robbers… the ones we found dead in the street.”  She answered at last.  “I don’t think he killed them.  They’d been shot straight to the heart, and with a different sort of gun than he usually uses.  He was definitely involved, but not as a killer—I think he might have been tracking them.”

                “What for?” asked Ziva.

                “Search me,” shrugged Carter.

                Ziva picked up another file.  “Might he have been trying to protect one?  Your file about your… personal run-in with him suggests that he believed you to be in some sort of danger.”

                “Considering my CI shot me in cold blood later that day, I’d say he was right.”

                “He called you on the phone.”  Ziva pressed.  “To warn you about impending danger.  Did he say why he thought you were in danger?”

                Carter shook her head.  “He never does.”  Her frustration was very evident.  “No explanation, no answers, he just… always seems to know when a crime is about to happen.”

                “Perhaps it is because he is the one orchestrating the crime,” suggested Ziva.  “He warned you about a threat he himself created in an attempt to win your trust.”

                Though she looked rather skeptical of the idea, Carter paused to give it some thought.  “Agent Donnelly suggested something along those lines.”  She admitted.  “He thinks my guy is working for Elias, the same guy my CI said was forcing him.  Donnelly said maybe Elias was looking to win over the one cop he couldn’t bribe.”

                “You do not.” Ziva responded.  It wasn’t a question.

                Carter shrugged.  “Just seems easier to kill me.”

                Accepting that with a nod, Ziva flipped to the start of the file.  “You… originally met this man on a subway assault case, correct?”

                “Yeah, some punk named Anton I was looking at for murder tried to rough him up on the subway… didn’t go too well for him.”  A smirk touched the edge of Carter’s face. 

                “Yes, so I see.  How did he escape your custody?”

                “Like it says in the file.”  Carter repeated.  “Lawyer came in and cut him loose.”

                “From his employer.”  Ziva nodded. “Any idea who the lawyer was?”

                Again Carter shrugged.  “Not really.”

                Eyes narrowing, Ziva set the folder aside for the moment.  “May I ask you something?”  At Carter’s nod, she continued: “I cannot help but notice that all the cases in your file are from at least four months ago.  Yet clearly your vigilante friend is still at large.  May I ask why you have stopped pursuing him?”

                “The FBI took over the case,” answered Carter.  “Out of my hands now.”

                “Agent Donnelley says that apart from a few cases, you have remained separate from his task force despite his open invitation.  This whole session, you have been deflecting my questions and offering little more than I can already tell from the files.”  Ziva pressed.  “I am aware that officers often resent interference from federal authorities, but this seems rather… beyond that.”

                After a moment’s silence, Carter sighed and looked away.  “Look.”  She said.  “I do my part to help the federal authorities.  Donnelley’s a good man, and I’ve done my bit here and there, but…  after working through this case twice already with the FBI and the CIA…”

                “The CIA?”  Ziva frowned.  “They’ve approached you also?”

                Carter gave a little grimace.  “Let’s just say they made me a lot less trusting of federal agencies.”

* * *

 

                It starting to rain as Gibbs and Donnelly left the prison for the parking lot.  Donnelly snapped his cell phone shut as they entered the parking lot.  “That was Detective Szymanski from Organized Crime.”  He said.  “He confirmed Elias’ story, his organization never had anything to do with human trafficking.  In fact, they tended to shut those places down.  Brutally.”

                Gibbs sighed, checking his own phone.  “At least there’s that.  Anything else?”

                “That last don who survived Elias’ purge?  Turns out he left for Sicily months ago.  There’s no major rival left in town, unless this is a totally new player.  But he says they’ve heard nothing about that.”  Donnelly cocked an eyebrow at Gibbs, who was still studying his phone.  “That a message from a friend of yours?”

                “Wouldn’t say a friend,” answered Gibbs, a slightly annoyed look on his face.  “You go on without me, Donnelly.  I’ll catch another ride.”

                The FBI agent shrugged.  “Suit yourself.”  He climbed in the car and drove off.

                Gibbs  continued walking to the edge of the parking lot, rain still drizzling down.  His phone buzzed again and he held it to his ear.  “DiNozzio, what do you got?”  He listened for a moment.  “Alright, good work.  Gather Ziva and meet up at the office, I’ll be there soon.”  Clicking the phone off, he stood by the edge of the street, cocking an eye at the inevitable security cam posting watch on the corner.

                He’d been there only a few moments before a dark grey SUV came rolling up to the curb.  The window rolled down and a bald man with a bristly chin and a watchful expression looked out. 

“Get in.” said Trent Kort.

* * *

 

                 “Suppose it was only a matter of time before you showed up.”  Gibbs muttered as he slid into the seat across from the CIA agent.  “Aren’t you guys prevented by law from operating in the US?”

                “Who’s operating?”  Kort glanced at him as the car started to move.  “I’m just here as part of a little friendly inter-agency cooperation.”

                “Got rid of the eyepatch, I see.”  Gibbs noted. 

                “Too conspicuous, in my line of work.”  Kort answered.  “Glass eye is at least less noticeable, though depth perception is still a bit off.  That’s why they’ve got me running these little errands instead of facing real threats.”

                “So.”  Gibbs brushed off his suit.  “What’s this particular ‘errand?’  Another mess the CIA swept under the carpet?”

                “A mess the Agency wants gone.  He’s one of ours, alright, but he’s supposed to be dead—reportedly killed his handler and then disappeared, before his prints popped up in New York.”  Kort answered.  “We sent in a team to clean him up, but…”  He shook his head.  “…they vanished.”

                Gibbs let the sigh escape through his nose.  “You guys EVER make a successful clean-up?”

                “Sure we do,” responded Kort, looking vaguely insulted.  “You just never hear about the successful ones.”

                “What’s this one about?”

                Kort shook his head.  “Even if I knew, I couldn’t tell you.  I’m totally new to this case—little more than a glorified messenger, really—they didn’t explain anything past the essentials of what I was supposed to tell you.”

                “Which is?”

                “Pretty simple.”  Kort shrugged.  “If you get him, you’re not to question him, simply hand him over to us.”

                “Really.”  Gibbs raised an eyebrow.

                Kort grimaced.  “Gibbs, you don’t get it.  This isn’t just the CIA.  The NSA wants this guy.  I’m not allowed to talk to your mystery man either, I just pass him on to the others.  Whatever he’s mixed up in?  It’s a lot bigger than your pretty little scientist.”

                “That’s the problem you have in the CIA,” grunted the NCIS agent, looking out the window at the passing cars.  “Problems are always bigger than people.”

                “Maybe that’s just cause we deal with bigger problems than you do.”  Kort answered.

                “This is my agent who’s in trouble here.”  Gibb’s tone was sharp.  “If your bosses think I’m going to sacrifice her to cover up their mistakes, they’re very mistaken. I don’t care who else wants this ‘John’ character, or what he knows that might compromise whatever dirty secrets you spooks have filling up your closet.  I’ll find him and I’ll do with him as I damn well please.”

                “You never were one for cooperation,” said Kort, shaking his head.  “You realize, Gibbs, that we’re not exactly asking.”

                Gibbs just grunted.  “Do you ever?  That’s not called cooperation, you realize, that’s coercion.”  Popping off his seatbelt, he turned to the door.  “If you’ve got nothing to help me find him or Abby, then stop the car.  I’ve got better things to do than talk to pretentious suits.”

                Putting a hand on Gibbs’ arm, Kort pulled out a file.  “Our team disappeared investigating this address.”  He said.  “They were following a withdrawal from the bank account listed here.  We think it might be his.  But we’ve already flagged the account and sent a separate team to the location… both came up dry.”

                “Two dead ends.  I suppose I should be grateful for small favors,” retorted Gibbs, accepting the file.  “But if we find this guy, I’ll waterboard him if I have to.”

                “C’mon, Gibbs.”  Kort smirked as the car pulled to a stop.  “That’s the sort of thing we do.  You’d just lock him in a white room and ask compelling questions.  I doubt you’d manage to get anything out of him.”

                “Clearly, your superiors disagree.”  Gibbs pushed the door open and stepped out into the street.

* * *

 

                “Hey boss.  What’s in the file?”

                “The only info we can expect from the CIA, apparently.”  Gibbs did not look happy.  “They know who he is, but they’re not sharing.  What did the rest of you come up with?”

                “Well, I had a nice chat with Detective Fusco,” replied Tony, throwing Ziva a dirty look.  “He didn’t have a lot to tell me about Stills… apparently they knew each other, but not very well.  He did say the original Stills was something of a mental case… sounds like no one’s very sorry he’s gone.”

                “Any clue as to what our man is doing with his badge?”

                “Just what we already knew.  There was a showdown that Stills didn’t walk away from.  BUT I did some digging around the police station and managed to get ahold of the old IA file regarding the case.”  Tony slapped a folder down on the desk.  “One of the cops did finally confess that they’d been attempting to kill Hanson’s partner—apparently he’d been sniffing around.  The guy in the suit showed up out of nowhere and foiled the attempt, shot one of them in the leg and sent the other off to take him to the hospital.”

                “That seems like a very irregular course for a CIA operative.”  Ziva frowned.

                “So does showing up to save the guy in the first place,” commented Gibbs drily as he looked through the file.  “But it doesn’t fit with Elias’ tactics either.  This ADA was the one who put him away for murder and related charges.”

                “If Suit-man was working for a rival ganglord, that would fit.”  Tony suggested.  “Save an ADA’s life—or even stage the shooting to make him think he’s in your debt—then when things line up, make sure he’s the one to put your competitor in jail.”

                Gibbs nodded.  “Ziva, what did you get?”

                “Detective Carter was… very thorough in her reports, yet slightly less forthcoming in person,” frowned Ziva.  “As I told you on the phone, apparently her cooperation with the CIA has rendered her distrustful of federal agencies in general, meaning that she is unlikely to assist us in our investigation.”

                “What have you gleaned from her case files?”

                Ziva sighed and put her sheaf of folders next to Tony’s.  “Fingerprints, DNA, facial profiles, but unfortunately nothing we can match to a name or address.  Oddly, though, most of the cases involved here are not homicides, or even kidnapping.  As Detective Fusco told us, he seems to leave more witnesses than bodies.”

                “Not normal for a CIA operative OR a hitman.”

                “As best they can gather, he has access to a… staggering array of weaponry.  Which, matched with his skill for using them, makes him a…”  Ziva winced.  “…powerful force on the streets.  The more so since, according to these files, there’s not much he balks at.”  She gave the folders a meaningful tap.  “He’s been connected with breaking out a suspect from an FBI prison convoy, attacking a local US Marshal station, and firing on the vehicle of a German diplomat.”  Handing over the relevant report, Ziva pointed to a certain entry.  “With an anti-material rifle.”

                “After which he assaulted a Stasi agent, in connection with his pursuit of a former Cold War operative.”  Gibbs muttered, reading the file.  “THAT sounds more like CIA.”  Looking back up, he asked, “Manage to get any information above Carter’s pay grade?”

                “Most of that was in Donnelley’s already.”  Ziva replied.  “I did attempt to contact the German consulate, but they refused to divulge any information.  In the case of the prisoner convoy, the man he freed later surrendered himself to the police and was cleared of all wrongdoing in the case.  The Marshal’s office is a touch more… interesting.”  Picking up a remote from the desk, Ziva clicked the large monitor on to reveal their suit-clad suspect knocking US Marshalls against the walls.

                “Ooh, nice moves,” said Tony approvingly.  Gibbs and Ziva glared at him.  “What?  Can’t I appreciate good work?”

                “Who’s this man he’s shoving against the wall?”  Gibbs pointed.

                “US Marshall Jennings.”  Ziva answered.  “Colorado resident, in New York pursuing a fugitive.  Apparently our man assaulted and threatened him, then left.”

                “Get in touch with Jennings.”

                Ziva shook her head.  “I am afraid that is not possible.  He has disappeared.”

                Gibbs closed his eyes.  “How much you want to bet that ‘Stills’ has a US Marshall badge in that jacket of his?”

                “Not taking that bet,” frowned Tony.  “Say, we got any more footage of this guy in action?”

                “…Yes…” said Ziva, glancing at the silent McGee with a slightly troubled expression.  “…I asked McGee to compile footage from all the case files, our clearance should make us privy to much more than Carter alone had access to.”

                “Find anything, McGee?”  Gibbs asked.  “Hey, McGee!”

                Apparently snapping out of a thought, McGee looked over at him.  “I didn’t… sorry, I…”  He blinked a few times and regained his composure.  “Uh, not yet.  It’s taking a while to compile all the data, Ziva just got in a few minutes ago.”

                “I sent them to you from the station,” answered Ziva, still eyeing him strangely.

                “Yes, but…”  McGee clicked a few keys and the screen divided into thousands of different windows, each with their own separate little scene.  A flaming car.  A roadside bar.  A train station.  A hospital parking garage.

                “These are ALL footage of his cases?”  Tony’s eyes were wide.

                “New York City has one of the most extensive surveillance networks in the US,” answered McGee.  “It’s more than a camera on every corner, there’s streetviews, riverside cameras, skycams, and even thermal imaging scanners.”

                “Helllooo, Big Brother.”  Tony muttered.

                Ziva’s forehead wrinkled.  “Big Brother?”

                “That’s not counting private security networks, which of course anyone with the right authorization or know-how can access.”  McGee swallowed.  “I used to think this sort of thing was pretty cool.”

                “Used to?”  Tony arched an eyebrow.

                Shrugging, McGee answered, “Just… seeing all this footage… it just occurred to me what the wrong person could do with this kind of power.”

                Gibbs gave a little nod.  “Good thing that it’s us that’s looking, then.  Find anything?”

                “Not… yet.  I have facial recognition software running through it for hits, but it’s going to take a while to compile all this information.  Unfortunately, our man seems to have a good understanding of surveillance… he stays in whatever blind spots there are, never looks directly at the camera, and in a lot of cases…”  McGee shrugged.  “…the security footage is just… cut.”

                “Like the feed at the apartments and hotel.”  Tony sighed.

                “Show him the stuff from the FBI raid.”  Ziva insisted.

                “Oh, right.”  A few clicks, and a whole series of windows filled the screen, showing SWAT officers storming up and down hallways, charging down stairwells, and smashing down doors, while on other screens a lean man in a suit darted from one hiding spot to another, a raven-haired woman just a step behind him.

                “Donnelley’s team managed to corner him in a high-rise hotel.”  McGee explained.  “They stormed the building from the roof and floor, but he managed to bypass them and escape from a deserted service tunnel.”

                “Who’s the chick behind him?” asked Tony.

                “Unknown, actually,” put in Ziva, reading from the report.  “Assumed to be some kind of hostage, but she disappeared with him and never came forward.”

                “Doesn’t seem to be acting like a hostage,” noted Gibbs.

                “She could be wearing an explosive vest.”  Ziva suggested.

                Tony glanced sideways at her.  “It’s creepy that that’s the first thing you think of.”

                “Hang on,” snapped Gibbs, jabbing a finger at the screen.  “Go back and replay the last thirty seconds.”

                With a confused blink, McGee clicked the appropriate keys and the figures ran in reverse.

                “Do it again.”  Gibbs snapped.

                Tony stepped up behind his chief.  “Boss, what’re we looking for here?”

                “Wait, I think I see it,” said Ziva, stepping forward also.  “He stopped just in time to avoid those men.  He should have run straight into them.”

                McGee rewound again.  “Looks like he checks his phone just before.”

                “He had an outside contact, watching the screens,” nodded Tony.  “Warning him where the cops were.  No wonder he avoided them all.”

                “That meshes with something else.” Ziva responded, flipping through the file.  “At a crucial moment in the raid, communications across the city were suddenly cut off.  Radio, cell phone… everything.”

 McGee was still looking through the footage.  “Here, this looks interesting.  The cameras suddenly switch off at the end, but just before there’s a shot of this guy—“ One of the windows zoomed in on a dark figure by the hotel cable box, “—cutting the feed.”  McGee swiveled to face the others.  “The ensuing confusion enabled the target to escape.”

“Could be our confederate.”  Tony nodded, taking in the tall, powerful figure.

Ziva shook her head.  “We are looking for a rich man with spectacles.  This man is someone different—possibly another ally.”

Gibbs cut into the discussion by again gesturing at the screen.  “What’s this group, right here?”

                “I’m… not sure.”  McGee admitted, enlarging the window. A group of distressingly well-armed men in thick jackets and dark caps  were poised around the elevator door, waiting for it to descend.

                “That is in the report too, actually,” said Ziva, consulting the file.  “Did you read this at all, McGee?  Apparently there was another faction involved in the raid, also chasing the man.  They had a mole—the police officer working with the FBI—who fed them intel on where the guy was.  FBI found evidence of a shootout in the underground parking garage, but…”  She shrugged.  “…never identified them.”

                “That could be our opposite faction, right there.”  Tony nodded.  “They hire Raburn to kidnap Abs, Suit-man shows up and grabs her instead.”

                Gibbs was studying the feeds.  “Notice anything about the way they move?”

                “Er…”  Tony blinked as the men on the screen kicked down a door and cleared the room.

                “They are cops.”  Ziva breathed.  “No wonder they had a mole.”

                Gibbs nodded.  “NYPD had a big scandal just recently… An anonymous tip started a federal investigation.  Turned out a large section of the police force was corrupt, up to a mayoral candidate.”  He tapped the screen.  “These must have been part of their squad.”

                “Think they’re still around?”  Tony asked.

                Gibbs shrugged, but his mouth was set in a grim line.  “Hard to say.  Detective Taylor and his men seem solid, but no sense in taking chances.”  He turned to face the group.  “Tony!”

                “Talk to IA and the federal investigation about the dirty cops,” nodded Tony, already picking up the phone.  “On it, boss.”

                “Ziva!”

                “Look through the CIA report, analyze the data, and follow up on any potential leads.”  Ziva neatly snagged the folder.

                “McGee!”

                No answer.

                Gibbs turned to look at the technician, who was still staring at the computer.  “McGee!”

                Again McGee came to with a start.  “Uh, yes.  Sorry sir.  I’ll… I guess I’ll… ah…”  He looked up at his boss.  “Actually, I don’t know what you want me to do, sir.”

                “Put a rush on compiling that surveillance data!”  Gibbs snapped, clearly annoyed.  “And find out how the heck his partner shut down communications in New York City!”

                “Yes sir.”

                “What about you, boss?” asked Tony.

                Gibbs snagged his coat on the way to the exit.  “I’m going down to get some decent coffee.  That stuff in the office stinks.”

                “Bring me back one, would y—“

The door slammed on Tony’s words.  Sighing, he exchanged glances with Ziva, who jerked her head in the direction of McGee’s desk.  Tony shrugged, studied the younger man for a moment, and finally stood up to walk over to the other agent’s desk.

“Look, Probie.”  He said in an undertone, leaning over the other’s desk.  “You feeling okay?”

McGee flashed him a look.  “I’m fine, Tony.”

“You sure?”  Tony raised an eyebrow.  “Because from that last session, you looked like you were pretty far off your game.”

“It’s nothing.”

“McGee, listen to me.  I get that you’re worried about Abby.  We’re all worried about Abby.  And I don’t know whatever was going on between you guys before this whole mess started—“

“Nothing.”  McGee looked straight up at him this time.  “There was nothing going on.  She made that very clear.”

Tony winced.  “Right.  But listen, whatever it was, you need to black all that out right now.  You can’t help us find Abby if you don’t have your head in the game.”

“I know.”  McGee looked down.  “I know, but…”  Sighing, he glanced back up.  “You’re right.  I’m sorry.  It won’t happen again.”

Tony gave him a little slap on the shoulder.  “That’s the spirit, Probie.”

* * *

 

                Gibbs sat at the window of the coffeeshop, staring out at the rain.  Steam wisped from the cup in his hand, and the everyday chatter of New Yorkers flowed past him without notice.  His cell phone lay on the table before him, awaiting updates from his various team members.

                “Excuse me?”  A voice recalled him from his reverie.  A scrawny businessman was at his table, a hot cup in his hand, eyebrows arching apologetically over his spectacles.  “May I sit here?”

                Gibbs’ eyes narrowed, but he simply shrugged.  “Help yourself.”

                “Thank you,” said the man, sliding into the seat across from Gibbs.  He walked with a limp, the senior agent noticed.  “I’m sorry to be so rude,” continued the man, smiling lightly.  “But the shop is just so full.”

                The shop did seem to be rather busy, Gibbs noted, looking over the shop with a quick glance.  People tended to eat inside on rainy days like today.  And there were some people sharing booths, and he WAS the only person in this particular booth.

                But that didn’t explain why the man was just sitting there, not drinking his coffee, and eyeing Gibbs warily.

                “Nice glasses.”  Gibbs observed, sipping from his cup.  “Do I know you?”

                “No.  No, you don’t,” answered the man, meeting Gibb’s gaze evenly.  “But I know you, Special Agent Gibbs.  I know your job, your history, what you ate for breakfast this morning.  I know that you’re _very_ good at your job, and that you never give up.”  Leaning a little forward, the man continued: “I know, Agent Gibbs, that you’re a very bad enemy to have, and I’m here in hopes of… preventing you becoming ours.”

                “‘Ours.’”  Gibbs settled back in his seat, nodding.  “So you’re the other man.”

                The man just gave a short nod in response.

There was a long moment of silence between the two.  Finally, Gibbs picked up his coffee.  “So who are you?  The ringleader?  The messenger?  Tech support?”

                “My role is unimportant.”  The man leaned over the table.  “If you want a name, call me Harold, but what’s important, Agent Gibbs, is that you realize that we _aren’t_ your enemy.”

                “I’ve got one missing agent and another with a concussion that says otherwise,” commented Gibbs.

                The man shrugged.  “Officer David left John no choice.  As for Ms. Scuito, I can assure you that she is no longer in our custody.”

                “But she was.”  Gibbs noted.

                “That’s not important anymore.  What’s imp—“

                “The HELL it’s not!”  Gibbs snorted, slamming his coffee cup down on the table.  “She’s MY agent, and she’s missing, and if you expect me to just leave it at that, you’d better have a damn good reason for why I shouldn’t hunt you and your friends into the ground!”

                There was no outward reaction, but Harold was blinking considerably more rapidly.  “Agent Gibbs,” he replied quietly, “…hunting John and I down will get you no closer to Abby.  I came here specifically to give you all the relevant information regarding her abduction.  Trust me when I say that even if you succeeded in tracking us down, you’d get no more useful information out of us.”

                “So start talking,” grunted the agent.

                The man’s eyes flickered left, then right, then squarely on Gibbs.  “I can give you a name.”  He answered.  “Root.”


	5. Backstory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quick Flashback to several days ago, from Finch and Reese's perspective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now to the Person of Interest POV.

 

                “Morning, Mr. Reese.”  Finch said absentmindedly, as the former CIA agent walked up to his station.  “I see you resolved the Elliot situation.”

                “For the moment.”  Reese shrugged.  “Carter won’t be able to put Thomas away in more than juvenile detention.  Still, at least he won’t be able to harm his mother.”

                “One does wonder what drives an 8-year-old to attempt to murder his parents.”  Finch mused.

                “Kids these days.”  A light smile tugged at the edge of Reese’s mouth.

                “Well, glad you wrapped it up at last.”  Finch looked at him over the top of his spectacles.  “The Machine gave us another number.”

 

 

**GROUND ZERO NRTHWALL CAM 270 10/28/2012 10:34:13**

 

                _“Her name is Abigail Sciuto,”_ Finch’s voice rang in Reese’s ear as he followed the lacy-black parasol.  _“A forensic specialist with the Naval Criminal Investigative Service in Washington DC.”_

                Reese raised his eyebrows.  “That’s not exactly in our neighborhood, Finch.  What’s she doing here in New York City?”

                _“On vacation, apparently.”_ As he listened, Reese watched the girl stop by some names etched in the wall.  _“The interesting part is that Ms. Sciuto’s record shows that she hasn’t taken such a vacation in several years.  My guess is that she’s running from someone.”_

Pulling to a stop about fifty yards from the target, Reese pretended to be studying his own set of names.  “People come back from vacations, Finch.  And runaways fleeing for their lives generally don’t stop to visit national monuments.  Are you sure she’s the one?”

_“Mr. Reese, the Machine monitors all forms of electronic communication to predict violent crimes.  It may not specify whether the numbers it sends us are the victims or perpetrators, but it is NEVER wrong, as you well know.”_

“Right.” The perky Goth was on the move again.  Reese let her go on a few paces before turning to follow.   “So what are the odds she’s the perpetrator in this scenario?”

                _“Low.  She has a long history in law-enforcement, and there’s nothing in her history to indicate any violent tendencies_.”

                “The last number didn’t have any history either, and he killed his father.”  Reese reminded him.

                _“And, of course, a forensic specialist would know how to commit crimes without leaving any evidence,”_ Finch’s tone indicated agreement.  _“Yes, the possibility is there, Mr. Reese.  But there’s a much larger chance that Ms. Sciuto is the victim, not the perpetrator, here.”_

                Reese looked a trifle skeptical.  “Haven’t heard of many crooks with vendettas against the forensic specialists that put them away.  They tend to fixate more on the detectives.”

                _“Forget crooks, Ms. Sciuto’s problem is MEN.  Her Facebook, MySpace, and Twitter account indicate a rather… colorful history full of violent and/or obsessive boyfriends.  She has restraining orders out against several of her exes.”_

                “Any of them in New York?” asked Reese.  Abby was now moving toward the exit. 

                _“I rather doubt that Ms. Sciuto would travel TOWARD the person threatening her.  There is one moved to Brooklyn, but he has a new girlfriend and no record of violent crimes.  Another just flew in today… a Mikel Mawher.   I’d consider him a more likely suspect.”_

                “Recent breakup?”

                There was a pause.  _“…No.”_   Finch admitted.  _“Their affair ended several years ago.  It looks as though he may have done some jail time for his obsessive behavior.”_

“Then who was her latest squeeze?” asked Reese, as he began to close the distance between them.

                Finch’s voice sounded a trifle confused.  _“I’m… not entirely sure.  Her blog indicates that there was a relationship that ended recently, but she doesn’t provide any information about him.”_   There was a pause.  _“I’ll need access to her computer and cell phone, Mr. Reese.”_

                Stopping beside a lamppost, Reese produced his phone and pretended to check it, surreptitiously pointing it in Abby’s direction.  The press of a few buttons, and the words ‘FORCE PAIRING COMPLETE’ appeared on the screen.  “Got the phone for you, Finch.  I’ll get you the computer later.”

                “ _Take your time.  Ms. Sciuto appears to be an avid texter, it may take some time to sort through all this_.”  Reese could practically hear Finch frowning at the screen.

                “I’ll need a window when I can leave her alone to get to her apartment, Finch.”

                “ _Not a problem_.”  Finch answered.  “ _Miss Sciuto’s fondness for social media has given us virtually her entire schedule.  She’ll be working in the New York Police Forensics Lab from 1:30 to 5:00.  Should give you enough time to break in.”_

 

**GTHCBABECAM_001 10/28/2012 15:24:49**

 

                _“What’s taking so long, Mr. Reese?!”_   Finch’s voice was annoyed and just a touch snappish.

                “You’re the one good with computers, Finch.”  Reese answered, none too happy himself.  He stood in Abby’s apartment, directly above her laptop.   “How about you give me some ideas for her password?”

                There was a sigh.  _“Apparently Ms. Sciuto keeps her computer more secure than her online accounts.  Let’s see.”_ The sound of clicking keys could be faintly heard.  _“Try MarilynMonroe893.  That’s her Facebook password.”_

                Reese’s fingers tapped over the keys.  “Nothing.”

_“CafPow423Glorious?”_

                “No.”

                _“Perhaps something more personal.  She made a number of texts to a Ziva David.  Try some different iterations of that.”_

                Click.  Clickclick. Clicketyclickclick.  Click.  “This is getting us nowhere, Finch.”

                _“Wait, hang on.”_   There was a pause.  _“Ziva’s texts kept asking her about a Tim McGee.  Go with that.”_

Clickityclickclikclickclackety click. Click click…

                “There. We’re in.” Reese stood back.  “Not bad, Finch.  Only took you four tries.”

                _“I guess we know the identity of her most recent love interest_.”  Finch remarked drily.  _“I’ll see what I can dig up on Mr. McGee; you get the information on her computer.”_

“Understood.  I…” Pausing, Reese did a double take at the item on Abby’s desk.  “Finch, is there anything on her profile about liking John Calvin?”

                _“I don’t remember seeing it, why?”_

                “Because there’s a bobblehead of him on her desk, and…”  Reese turned it over.  “…ah.  A hidden camera.”

                _“Looks like we’re not the only people keeping an eye on Ms. Sciuto_ ,” noted Finch.

 

 

**LIBRARY INT CAM 002 10/28/2012 16:07:42**

                “Agent Timothy McGee is one of Ms. Sciuto’s co-workers at NCIS,” said Finch, tacking a new picture to the board as Reese entered the Library.  “He appears to be the technical Specialist of the team.”

                Reese nodded.  “Office romance.  Makes sense why she’d keep quiet about it.”

                “Indeed.  It must have been something of an open secret, for Agent David to be mentioning it so casually, but even so, such a relationship could cost them both their jobs.”

                “So, understandable that she’d break it off, but not run away.”  Reese mused.  “Is there any chance he’s the threat?”

                “Well, he’s still at Washington, and shows no signs of leaving.  Plus, he has been a law enforcement officer for nearly as long as Ms. Scuito.  Still…” Finch’s fingers drummed on the desk.  “Over 65% of female homicides are the result of a romantic entanglement.”

                “And a cop would know the importance of an alibi.”  Reese nodded.  “Easy for him to hire a hitman and blame the death on New York City’s crime rate.”

                Sighing, Finch took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.  “In either case, he’s not the immediate threat.  He can’t shoot her himself all the way from Washington, so we may as well focus on who can.  Get anything off her computer?”

                “See for yourself,” shrugged Reese, handing over the flashdrive.  “There’s a lot on there, though.  Pictures, songs, online video games…”

                “I can see this is going to take some time,” frowned Finch.

                Reese just smiled.  “What about the camera?”

                “Disturbingly complex.”  Finch frowned, turning to the mass of parts on his desk.  “It’s hooked up to a cell-phone receiver… whoever planted it could call the number and access the video.  I suppose our best bet is to monitor it and wait for someone to call.”

“And Mawher?  Should we be worried about him?”

                “He went to his aunt’s house directly after flying in,” answered Finch, slightly distracted.  “His twitter account states that he’s here ‘to reconnect with old friends.’”

                “Well, that sounds ominous enough for me.”  Reese nodded.  “Think I should pay a visit to Mr. Mawher?”

                “Not… just yet.”  Finch shook his head.  “It’s possible he’s entirely ignorant of Miss Scuito’s presence here in New York.  If so, the last thing we want to do is inform him.  However, it WOULD be helpful to have a means of tracking him…”

                “Shouldn’t be too hard to hijack his phone’s GPS,” nodded Reese, already moving toward the door.

 

 

**5thWST_STCAM234 10/28/2012 15:34:25**

 

                “There she is.”  Reese raised his head slightly from the barely-interesting magazine in his hand to study the perky Goth coming out of the police station doors, chatting and joking with the others.  “About a half-hour past schedule.”

                “ _A devoted employee, Miss Scuito_ ,” commented Finch.

                “Looks like she made some new friends… and they’re headed for the coffeeshop.”  Reese threw the magazine away and followed the crowd.  He entered the coffeeshop just behind them and sat a table away from them, back carefully turned.

                “…Aaaaand hold it!” There was a clicking sound.  “Oh yes!  I’m going to send this to Ziva, right now, so she can tell what a blast I’m having in New York City.”

                “Why don’t you send one to that nice McGee boy you were telling me about?” asked the woman sitting across from her.  “I’ll bet he’d love to hear about how you’re doing.”

                “Oh, um…” there was a rustle and the sound of someone fumbling in a purse.  “Maybe… later.  I don’t think he wants to hear from me right now.”

                A new female voice cut in.  “I think YOU don’t want to hear from him.”  There was a smile in the words.  “Your prince charming getting a little too clingy, was he?”

                “It… wasn’t like that.”  Abby insisted.  “It was just… I mean we were just… friends.  Like, friendly friends, y’know?  Like REALLY friendly friends.”

                “You get that ‘friendly’ with all your friends?” asked the second voice.  There was a snicker.

                “Well, okay, maybe a bit more than really friendly friends.  But it was just sorta a fun thing!  You know?  Like it was fun and happy and, and, and…. and it was just fine!  Just like it was!”

                “So…” prompted the first voice.

                “So… it was just fine as it was.”  Abby muttered, a somewhat peevish tone entering her voice.  “It was fine and we were having fun, and then… and then McGee had to ruin it by starting to talk about… about stuff.”

                The second voice made an ‘Ahhhhh’ sound.  “So he WAS getting clingy.”

                “No, not like that.  I mean, I wasn’t seeing anybody except Gibbs and Tony at work and Gibbs is hard to get mad at because he’s just scary and Tony…  well, I guess he WAS a little miffed when Tony was flirting with me, but everyone just knows that’s Tony so I don’t think it was anything… anyway he wasn’t like CLING-Y clingy.  But it was…”  Abby sighed.  “…I don’t know.  He was acting weird.  Like, ‘talking-about-kids’ weird.”

                “Honey, kids aren’t weird.  Terrifying, yes, but not weird.”

                “Terrifying!  Exactly!  Do I look like a responsible mom to you?  Mom’s are like… ultra-perfect and super-on-top-of-things and… just all-around awesome people!”  Abby seemed to realize she was speaking too loudly and subsided.  “Anyway.  So.  It was too weird.  I had to get out.  But he kept showing up at work and I’d given him a key to my apartment and…”  There was a slight squeaking noise as Abby shifted uncomfortably in her seat.  “I’ve… always wanted to see New York anyway.”

                “Abigail, sweetie, you realize you’re going to have to talk to him sooner or later.”

                “Later, then.  Later is definitely better,” insisted Abby.  “Never would be best, but I’ll settle for later.”

                The two women sighed, practically in unison.  “Alright, then.”

                Reese touched his ear.  “Agent McGee sounds obsessed.”

                _“He’s attempted to call her cell six times just since this morning.  She’s blocked him from her cell phone, e-mail, Facebook, and most of her gaming accounts.”_   Finch agreed.  _“Perhaps being spurned by Ms. Scuito pushed our Agent McGee over an edge his friends didn’t know he had.”_

                “He’s still not a danger to her here in New York.”  Reese pointed out.  “And if he hired someone, it could be any of a thousand thugs on the street.”

                _“I’ll send an e-mail to him from her account.  He won’t be able to resist opening it, it should give us remote access to his computer, I may be able to back-track any transactions he’s made.”_

                “I don’t know Finch.  He’s a computer technician, could have some pretty heavy security on his home system.  Sure you can handle it?”  asked Reese.

                _“Thank you for your concern, Mr. Reese, but if you remember, I created a Machine for accessing all forms of electronic surveillance and assessing probable threats based on an unprecedented amount of information.”_   Finch’s voice had just the driest touch of arrogance to it.  _“I think I may be able to handle even an advanced home office security system.”_

“Right.”  Reese nodded as the group stood to their feet, still chatting.  “Keep working that end, Finch.  I can’t protect her if I don’t know where the threat is coming from.”

 

 

**OAKWSTCAM_02 10/28/2012 20:38:09**

 

_“Surveillence shows Miss Scuito is out clubbing with her new police friends, which means she should be relatively secure for the next couple hours.”_

                “And Mawher?”  Reese asked, shining his flashlight around the darkened room.

                _“The GPS in his phone shows him to be at a heavy metal concert approximately four blocks away.”_ Finch’s voice sounded vaguely worried.  _“It is… touchy.  But we’ll never have a better opportunity than this to examine his living arrangements.  Discovered anything useful?”_

                “Aside from that the boy should learn to lock his windows at night?”  Reese thoughtfully flipped through a few magazines on the desk.  “Not really. Has a disturbing number of books on serial killers and death rites, but nothing that hints at malicious intent.”  Brushing some papers aside, Reese uncovered the laptop and opened it, flipping the switch.  “Of course, a man of Mawher’s generation, traveling abroad, he’s more likely to carry personal information on his portable.”  Reese stuck a thumb drive in the left socket as the screen flickered into life.

                _“Access may be problematic, Mr. Reese.  I’ve been attempting to hack Mawher’s online accounts, he seems to be more adept at internet security than Ms. Scuito.”_

                “Well, hers was a name, let’s try the same for him.  Start with various versions of Abby Scuito.” Clickclick. Clickclickclick.  ClicklickKlickClickclikclick.  “Alright.  That’s not getting us anywhere.”  Reese glanced again at the book on the desk and frowned.  “What about…” Clickclikclickclck. 

                _“Well?”_

                “I’m in, Finch, but you’re not going to like what the password was.”  Reese hefted the book in his hand.  “HenryHowardHolmes.”

                There was a moment of silence from the speaker.  _“I shall never understand the modern fascination with serial killers_.”  Finch said decidedly.  _“Is it possible this is just an unhealthy obsession of Mr. Mawher’s?”_

                Reese simply grunted.  “Possibly.  Though that’s a… disturbing comfort at best.  In any case, though, he’s definitely not over Ms. Scuito.  Her face is plastered all over her desktop.”

                _“Send me the data, Mr. Reese, then head over to check up on Mr. Mawher.  I think it’s time you had a talk with him.”_

                “Agreed.”

 

 

**CLUB_INTCAM_04  10/28/2012 20:38:09**

 

                The concert was not huge, a sign of the band’s obscurity—and, Reese couldn’t help feeling, overall quality.  But there were still plenty of people, and with the GPS only accurate within 200 yards, Reese was having a difficult time locating Mawher amidst the leaping bodies.  The flashing strobe light was not helping in the least.

                “I’m not exactly blending in here, Finch,” said Reese, casting an eye at the leather-clad, stud-decorated fans.  “Mawher will see me coming from a mile away.”

                _“Operational efficiency is YOUR speciality, Mr. Reese.  Figure something out, I have the utmost confidence in your resourcefulness._

                “That’s heartwarming, Finch, but I—“  Reese stopped suddenly.  “Hang on.  I have eyes on Mawher.”

_“And?”_

                Reese studied the man in question, who seemed to currently have his face buried in a mass of long blonde hair.  “And it looks like that’s not the only thing that’s changed.  I think we can take Mawher off our list of suspects.”

                There was another short silence.  _“Are you certain?”_

                “Yes.”  Reese turned from the couple.  “And if it’s all the same to you, Finch, I think I’d like to stop observing this target now.”

_“Very well.  I trust your judgment.  Resume observation of Ms. Sciuto and see if you can spot anyone else tailing her.”_

 

**MAPLEDR N CAM_04 10/29/2012  10:34:56**

 

                “This is getting old, Finch.”  Reese remarked as he again tailed the black parasol.  “I’ve been to Madison Square Garden, the Empire State Building, and more novelty stores than I knew existed.”

                _“And you’ve yet to pick up anyone else following her?”_

                “No one.”  Reese frowned.  “Any leads on your end?”

                _“Agent McGee’s computer was… slightly more difficult to penetrate then I anticipated, but not uncrackable.  Unfortunately, it seems he has recently reformatted his machine.”_

                Reese stopped in the middle of the street.  “He deleted everything?”

_“Not… everything.  But all his internet history, e-mail records, downloads, service logs…  It’s very thorough, he seems to use a specialized program on his computer to completely delete all his files.  I can’t determine what Agent McGee has been up to in the last few days at all.  I did manage to gain access to his bank account, though.  It looks like he took out a large amount of money last week.  I’m working on tracking down what he spent it on.”_

                Abby had stopped at a food kiosk to order an ice-cream cone.  Reese again stopped a half-block away,  pretending to examine the books in the window.  “What about the camera?”

                _“No one’s called up on it yet.  Either they have no need to supervise Ms. Sciuto at the moment, or they somehow are aware that the device is no longer in place.”_

                Reese frowned.  “No one saw me leave the apartment, Finch.  Is there a GPS tracker in the camera?”

_“No.  But it might be possible to determine that sort of thing through other means.”_

                “Like a second camera hidden in the apartment.”

_“Two cameras for the same room?”_

                “Well, there are some people who really go crazy about surveillance, Finch,” noted Reese.  Abby, hot dog in hand, was walking down the street.  Reese let her go a few steps before turning to go after her.  “But the camera wouldn’t necessarily be of the same room.  It could cover the entryway and catch me walking out with the bobblehead.”

                _“So whoever we’re looking for not only still has eyes on her apartment, but also is aware of our involvement.”_

                “That’s about the size of it.”  Reese stopped at the crosswalk behind  Abby.  “I’m liking this situation less and less, Finch.”  The light turned to the ‘walk’ sign and the girl began to cross the street.  Again Reese let her get a few steps ahead.  “Someone’s a few steps ahead of us and I don’t…”

                Reese’s head snapped around at a car approaching the light unusually fast.  Tires screeched against the pavement as cars slammed on their brakes to avoid the van as it dashed through the intersection.  Reese leapt forward, barreling into Abby and pushing her out of the way of the careening vehicle just in time.

                The car rushed past them at breakneck speed, swerving down the road as it sped out of sight.  Onlookers on the sidewalk and street stared after it, some yelling, most muttering.

                “Holy…!”  Abby’s eyes were wide and startled.  “That guy just… wasn’t he…  You just…”  Her eyes traveled up to John’s face.  “Uh…. Thanks.”

                “Don’t mention it,” answered John, turning from his study of the road to look at her.  “You all right, miss?”

                “Yeah.”  Abby nodded, eyes still wide.  “Yeah, I’m fine.  A little shook up, but I’m okay.  Kinda weird…”  She added, picking up her purse and looking down the street. “I mean, there’s less than a five percent  chance of getting run over while crossing the street lawfully.  Even in New York!  Which is not to say that New York is particularly crime-laden or anything, I mean technically in some ways it’s safer…”

                “Are you SURE you’re all right?”  John asked again.

                Abby subsided.  “Uh… yeah.  Yeah, I just talk a lot when I’m nervous.  It’s like a psychomatic reaction or something, just a way I have of handling stress and…”  Suddenly she noticed something.  “Oh, dangit!  I dropped my parasol!”

                “Here it is.”  A fresh-faced boy handed it to Reese.  “It was just by the sidewalk.  Looks like it got a little bent, miss.”

                “Oh, darn,” sighed Abby, snatching the parasol from John’s fingers.  “I’ll just have to get it fixed again.  Anyway, thanks for saving my life, Mr… ?

                “Robinson.”  John started to move away.  “And again, don’t mention it, ma’am.”

                “Oh…”  Abby looked slightly disappointed.  “Well, okay!”

                As he melted into the crowd, Reese touched his ear.  “Finch, tell me you got the plates on that van.”

                _“For all the good it does.”_ Finch’s voice sounded frustrated.  “ _The van in question just ran into a stop sign four blocks away.  Responders at the scene say the man appears to be intoxicated.”_

                “At this hour of the day?”

                _“It’s possible that this was just a coincidence, Mr. Reese.”_

                Reese frowned at thin air.  “Finch, if you believed in coincidences, you wouldn’t have made a Machine capable of predicting human action.”

                _“PREMEDITATED human action, Mr. Reese.  A random drunk driver wouldn’t fall under the Machine’s surveillance.”_

                “In any case, Finch, we need to step up our game.”  Reese glanced at the object in his hand.  “She had a tracking device on her parasol.  Whoever’s after her is closing in fast.”

 

 

**SHADYLN_EASTCAM_02  10/30/2012 01:49:03**

 

                “No cars, no lurkers, no other lights.”  Reese muttered.  From his darkened car, he aimed a pair of binoculars up at the lit window.  “If there’s a threat, Finch, it’s going to be from inside the building.”

                _“I’m running checks on the residents now, but there’s nothing coming up.  In the meantime, listen to this.  Ms. Sciuto has been chatting up on forums all night.  She’s especially taken to chatting with RoundRobin29, the newest member of the forum_.”  Finch could not keep a touch of smugness from filtering over the line.  “ _She’s been very forthcoming.  Here’s her latest post:  ‘I totally get where you’re coming from.  Some guys just get way too clingy.  If you don’t feel comfortable in a relationship you should just get out before the guy gets way too involved, otherwise he might take the breakup really hard.”_

                Reese raised his eyebrows.  “That sounds interesting.”

                _“Indeed.  Meanwhile, Agent McGee has also been browsing web forums.  Though he does not seem willing to discuss things with AirF41c0n, he has been slightly more open with GoldChick209.”_

                “You don’t say.”  Reese answered, rubbing his eyes.  “Get anything useful out of your puppet show?”

                _“He made one very interesting post before he logged out.”_ There was the intermittent clicking of keys.  “ _Ah yes, here it is: ‘I would, but I can’t give up on her.  And trust me, I’ve tried.  This is something you can’t just let go.  I don’t think she knows how important this is to me.  I don’t think she realizes how far I’d go to win her back.  And she’s in New York City now… all sorts of bad things happen there.’”_

                “Agent McGee is looking better and better as our suspect in this case.”  Reese grunted, looking up at the house again.  “He contact anyone in our neighborhood yet?”

                _“Not from his home computer_.”  Finch admitted.   “ _But he could easily use a laptop or an internet café to set up a dummy email account that I cannot access.  And of course he could simply call on his phone…”_

                “So we have no way of confirming his involvement or finding out who he might have hired to endanger Abby.”  Reese shook his head.  “I suppose I could take a field trip to Washington to handle it, get Fusco to follow Abby around while I’m gone.”

                There was a snort from the earpiece.  “ _Capable as Detective Fusco is, this would-be assassin seems much more capable.  You are needed here, Mr. Reese.”_

                “Suppose we warn her and put her in one of your safe houses?”  Reese suggested, lowering his binoculars.  The lights in the room had gone out.

                _“Extremely dangerous, Mr. Reese.”_     Finch’s voice got a little higher.  “ _Ms. Scuito is a federal employee with an intensely inquisitive mind, who possesses not-inconsiderable skill with electronics.  Exposing ourselves would lead her to ask questions about our information and about the Machine itself!  You are aware how the NSA would react to such a situation.”_

                “I realize that, Finch, but I’m not seeing a lot of options here.”  Reese said,  leaning back in his seat.  “We got lucky with that car this morning.  I can’t protect her if I don’t know where the threat is coming from.  A sniper round from the buildings, a knife in the street, cyanide slipped into her lunch…”

_“Mr. Reese, I realize it’s why I hired you, but even so, the readiness with which these various methods come to your mind is rather disturbing.”_

                “My point is that I can’t keep her safe from a threat like this if she keeps wandering around town.”  Reese argued.  “It’s hard enough in most cases, but this killer is a few steps ahead of us and I’d like to stop playing catch-up.”

                _“I understand your frustration Mr. Reese, but it would just be taking her from one danger to another.”_   Finch’s voice had a tone of finality to it.  _“I hired you for a reason, and I have every confidence in your… singular talents, even if you do not.  For now, we will simply have to play the waiting game.”_

 

 

**WOODSONST WEST CAM_23 10/30/2012 11:38:39**

 

                “I hate the waiting game.”  Reese grumbled, once again threading his way through the streets.  “Tell me you have something new.”

                _“Unfortunately not.  The van from yesterday was reported stolen, and Detective Fusco informs me that though the driver did NOT have alcohol in his bloodstream, he seems to have been a run-of-the-mill thug.  There is nothing else in the van to support any notion of foul play.”_

                “Great.  What else?”

                _“None of the other residents of Ms. Scuito’s apartment complex have anything that make them seem suspicious either.  No one new has moved in since Ms. Scuito began staying there; the newest neighbor, a Caroline Babbage, was around for a full week prior to Ms. Sciuto’s arrival.”_

                Reese let out a frustrated sigh.  “What about…”  He paused suddenly.  “Finch?  Has Abby made any calls since this morning?”

                There was a bewildered silence.  _“…No, actually.  That is curious, now that you…”_

                “It’s not curious, Finch.  She’s making one now.”  Glaring through the crowd of faces, Reese studied the goth woman as she gaily chatted away on her phone.  “We no longer have the feed from cell.”

                Again the pause, slightly more worried this time.  _“Someone else bluejacked her phone.”_

                “That’s it.”  Reese pressed forward through the crowd decidedly.  “I have limits, Finch.  I’m taking this op to the next level.”

                _“Mr. Reese, please do not do anything rash…!”_

                Reaching up to his ear, Reese flipped off the transceiver before following the girl into the café.  He waited as she ordered, sat down, and began to eat.  Then, as discretely as possible, he approached the table and sat down.  “Hello Abby.”  He said, smiling at the dumbfounded expression on the girl’s face.  “You’re in great danger.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gotta admit, I'm more interested in PoI than I am in NCIS. Tried to recreate the feel of an episode as much as I could here. 
> 
> Oh hey! If you wouldn't mind, could you drop a comment? Don't get me wrong, Kudos are great, but they're sort of impersonal. I much more prefer actually hearing from my readers.


	6. Cat and Mouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reese and Finch scramble to protect Abby, but the biggest obstacle to keeping the forensic scientist safe may be herself. And just when things can't get any crazier, a new number pops up.

 

**CAFEEXTCAM2  10/30/2012 11:44:13**

 

                Abby gaped in amazement at this strange vision that had suddenly landed in the seat across from her.  “Whu… YOU!”  She said, pointing.  “I recognize you!  You’re the cute guy from the other day!  Rob… Robinson!  That’s what you said your name was!”

                “Good memory,” nodded the man amiably. 

                “Is Robinson really your name, though?” asked Abby, cocking her head on one side.  “Because honestly, you look nothing like a Robinson.  That was bugging me all last night, I kept thinking, man, that guy doesn’t look like a Robinson, he looks like a Bysensky or a Caviezel or a Smith.  Not Robinson.  I even did a search on Robinsons in the New York City area, but there were a whole butt-load of them and my computer doesn’t…”  Somewhere in the back of her mind, the rest of her caught up with the man’s statement.  “Wait.  What kind of danger?”

                “The deadly kind.”  The man informed her.

                Abby studied the man.  “Do I know you?  I mean, apart from running into you yesterday.  Because, no offense, but that kinda sounded like a threat, and generally you only get threats from people you know.”  She blinked for a bit, considering alternatives.  “Unless, of course, you’re just talking in a general sort of sense, in which case I’ll just tell you what I told Ziva, and that is that New York is perfectly safe!  They had a big drop in violent crimes just last year and…”

                “Abby.”  The man held up his hand to stop her talking.  “That’s not what I meant.”

                “Ohhhhhhh.  Well good, because statistically that makes no sense.”  Abby smiled brightly.  “Although that still doesn’t explain the threat-en-ey vibe of what you’re saying.  Wait.”  Eyes narrowing, she raised a finger.  “Are you sure I don’t know you?  Because you just called me Abby—in fact, I think you did it before, too—and I’m pretty sure I didn’t tell you what my name was.”

                “You didn’t.”

                “Good, that’s what I thought, and I…  I…”  Abby stopped and bit her lip.  “And… that’s kind of creepy, now that I think about it.”

                The man smiled reassuringly.  “I guess it must seem that way.”  He coughed.  “Perhaps this might help.”  Reaching into his coat, he produced a badge.  “Detective Stills, NYPD, Organized Crime.  We have intel that suggests you might be tied to a recent string of violent crimes.”

                “So you’re NOT a Robinson!  I knew it!  But you don’t really look like a Stills, either.”  Again cocking her head, Abby wrinkled her forehead in thought.  “And how am I supposed to be involved in a violent crime here in New York?  I’m here on vacation.”

                “With all due respect, miss, our intel is never wrong.”  The man (Abby REALLY couldn’t see him as a Stills) answered, still smiling.

                “See now, it’s weird you call me miss, not because cops don’t call people ‘miss,’ they do, all the time, like the nice traffic officer I filed the accident report with yesterday, but the weird thing is that you call me miss NOW when before you called me Abby which isn’t really a… police thing to do.”  Abby put down her sandwich and scooted back on her seat a little.  “Which, again, not helping with the whole creepiness thing.”  Her right hand disappeared into her purse.

                “Easy,” said the man, raising his hand placatingly.  “Just… take it easy.  Look, I’m sorry if I scared you when I introduced myself.  I’ve always had a problem with being…”  Smiling, he shrugged. “…a bit too informal.  My boss is always ragging me about it.”

                Abby smiled, just a little.  “Yeah.  I get that some too.”

                “Listen, Abby… sorry, Miss Scuito.”  The man had the grace to look faintly embarrassed.  “I can’t explain it all to you now, but you’re a person of interest in a string of cases.  We have reason to think that your life may be in danger.  That’s why I was following you yesterday.”  He explained.  “I came out here because another person of interest died rather suddenly and we think the killer may be out to cover his tracks.”

                Abbys face was pure befuddlement.  “But… I don’t know… anything about…  anything.”

                “We’re just trying to keep everybody safe, Miss.”  The man assured her, starting to stand.  “Now, if you’d just come with me, I have a car waiting…”

                “Oh, no thanks!”  Abby leapt to her feet, tazer already out in her hand and extended somewhat tentatively.  “Thanks, but… I’ve got cop friends who keep an eye on me, and… like I know I’m probably really overreacting and stuff, but it is really weird that you didn’t send any of them to talk to me.  So… Anyway.”  She said, backing toward the exit.  “Like I said, I know I’m probably blowing this out of proportion, but cops usually work in pairs and I don’t see any sort of partner with you.”  Licking her lips, she tried a quick, nervous smile.  “Thanks anyway!”

                Turning, she fled from the café, only realizing rather later that she’d left her phone at the table.

 

 

**GTHCBABECAM_001 10/31/2012 03:39:43**

 

                The whole creepiness vibe never quite left her all day, so after a few hours of fruitlessly trying to get to sleep, Abby heaved the covers off herself and logged back onto her computer.  RoundRobin hadn’t replied to her latest post, so she did some surfing around on ebay… she still needed that new parasol.

                She was in the middle of a bidding war on a particularly cute parasol when there was a thump on the door.  Abby glanced around curiously.  It was long past time for visitors.  Maybe she was being too noisy in her bidding?  Or maybe it was a fellow insomniac?

                Or maybe it was an axe murderer?

                Rolling her eyes, Abby pushed back from her desk.  _Still thinking about that creep this morning_.  She chided herself.  Not everybody was like him.  It was probably just some sweet lady.  All the same, she grabbed her tazer from the bedside table as she padded over to the door in her pajamas.  She tried to look through the peephole, but it was dark.  Shrugging, she made sure the chain was tight and opened the door.

                Out of nowhere, a pair of metal shears flashed in the dark and chopped down on the chain.  The door crashed open under the weight of a heavy boot, and a horribly scarred face framed in shaggy brown hair thrust itself at Abby.

                Perhaps she screamed.  In retrospect, Abby was nearly certain that she had.  She stabbed the tazer into the man’s thick coat.  The needles would tear through the cloth and hit him with 20,000 volts of pain.  Abby had reduced musclebound men to lumps of quivering, sobbing flesh with her tazer.

                This one, though, just slapped away her tazer hand as if it were nothing.

                Abby stumbled back, bewildered.  This wasn’t possible, this couldn’t possibly be happening.  Her mind ran through hundreds of irrelevant facts about tazers and how they DID NOT WORK like this. 

                In the meantime, though, her body had taken over.  She charged at the man, arms flailing at his voluminous overcoat.  She tried to punch, slap, claw, kick, anything she’d seen in movies or videogames.  His gloved hand came out and grabbed her.  Remembering a pointer Ziva had once told her, Abby found the juncture between thumb and hand and bit down hard. 

She got a mouthful of foul leather but little else; the bearded man’s grip remained firm, and he threw her to the ground.  “Stay.”  He ordered.

                A dull black pistol had appeared in the bearded man’s hand.  Abby’s fevered forensic head was already classifying it.  Walther P99.  Silencer attached.  She could practically see the distinctive grooves on the bullet they’d find in the floor under her sprawled-out body.  They’d outline her in chalk.  Probably the brains and blood she’d leave splattered across the carpet, too, unless the bullet lodged in her skull.  It’d give them the angle, which should give them the height.  Gloves, so no prints, but Gibbs would know…

“Easy.”  The bearded man’s voice was low, rasping.  “They said to bring you in alive, but they didn’t say anything about unharmed.”  He gave a small gesture with the gun to indicate his meaning.  “I don’t particularly enjoy shooting women, but I’ve done a fair amount of it in my time, so…”  He raised a blistered finger to his lips and looked at her questioningly.

Crime statistics ran through Abby’s head.  Violent crimes in New York had dipped by fifty percent, but kidnappings themselves had not.  For a moment, her mind floundered trying to remember the exact figures before falling back on the national ones.  2300 people disappeared each day.  How many had actually been kidnapped was anyone’s guess.  Only 24% of known kidnappings were conducted by strangers.  That made her one of roughly 552 people in the nation. And of that number, the majority of kidnap victims had survived by playing along with the captor.

So Abby nodded.

“Good.”  The bearded man nodded, reaching into his coat.  “Turn around and face the wall, hands behind your back.”

Abby hesitated.

“Lady, I said…”

There was only the barest of warnings… the hurried sound of shoes running on wooden planks.  She and the man turned just as a new figure appeared in the doorway.  Abby had just time to recognize him as the creep from this morning before the gun in his hand barked twice, rocking the apartment with its sharp crack.

Possibly Abby screamed again.  She didn’t know.  She tried to crumple in on herself as the bearded man fell, the deadly pip-pip from his silenced pistol sending little pointed bits of metal whistling into the back wall.  Something hot sliced over her left shoulder and she cried out.

Suddenly there was a warm body around her, shielding her; and another sharp crack, much closer and louder.

And then there was silence.  For a moment Abby just crouched there, resting in the comforting warmth of her protector.  But then it pulled away, and she had to move.  “Gibbs?” She asked, turning to face her protector.

Of course it wasn’t Gibbs.  The instant she saw the silver-haired man in the suit bending over the bearded man’s body, she berated herself for such a foolish expectation.  But it would have been just like Gibbs… to show up at the last minute, completely unexpected.  Probably with a smile and a cup of Caf-Pow.

This man, though, just looked at her.  “Are you all right?”  he asked.

Was she?  Most kidnapping victims experienced some kind of shock, she should be feeling that, really, the guy over there was dead, after all, and... her hand came away from her shoulder sticky and wet.

“I… I…”  She managed.

“We need to get you out of here.”  His low rumble was calm, authoritative.  Like Gibbs.  How come she hadn’t noticed that before?  He held out a hand to her.  “Quick, come with me.  I know a place where you’ll be safe.”

Abby took his hand without a word.  She didn’t say anything as he grabbed a raincoat and wrapped it around her.  She didn’t say anything as they dashed down the stairs.  When they got into the car, she had yet to say a word.  They drove two blocks in complete silence.

Then she started talking.  “I… it… that guy…”

“You’re all right now.”  The man assured her.  “Did you know him?”

“No,”  Abby shook her head, staring out at the flashing lights outside.  “No, I’ve never seen him before, which is odd because most kidnappings are done by family, friends or acquaintances, although I guess it would be weirder if one of my friends OR one of my family was trying to kidnap me, so I guess it makes sense after all, but still the chances are against it and I…”

“Slow down.”  The man pushed a soda can into her hand.  “Drink this.  It should help.”

Abby gulped down the tasteless soda in record time and continued.  “…I know you said I was in danger because of something with organized crime but I really can’t remember anything, and he was trying to kidnap me which is odd because don’t mobs usually kill people?   I mean I haven’t had much experience with mobs, certainly not as much as you, but it still seems like killing witnesses would be quicker and faster and now I’m kinda disgusted with myself for thinking that but it’s still true.”

“Kidnapping?  Yes, you’re right, that is odd.”  The man agreed, frowning slightly.  Distantly it occurred to Abby that the lights outside were shooting past a great deal faster than they should be, and also that the car was swerving around in a way that would make Ziva nervous.  “Did he say why he wanted to kidnap you?”

“Not really, though I guess you don’t tell victims that sort of information ordinarily, unless you wanted some sort of information out of them or…”  Abby took a breath and calmed herself.  “He said he’d been told to take me in alive, but not necessarily unharmed.”  She said, in a more subdued tone.  “Though I guess he might have just been saying that.  If they wanted to kidnap me, though, they must be after some information  I have.”  Glancing out the window at the lights again, something else occurred to her.  “Um, don’t you have a siren or something you should be using to get the cars out of the way?  Because it’s great that you’re going fast, and it’s not really terribly new, Ziva drives like this a lot and Gibbs does it too when he’s really mad, though I guess I’ve only heard about that from Tony and it might not be so bad because Tony likes to kid around a lot and…”  Something else occurred to her.  “You used a Glock…”  She said, looking at him with new trepidation.  “New York officers don’t use those.”

The man threw her a sideways glance.  “Yes.”  He answered.  “I lied to you.  I’m not a cop.  My name’s not Stills, or Robinson.”

“Then who are you?” asked Abby, her hand already on the door.

“Right now, I’m the guy who saved your life.”  He looked at her a little longer this time, which might have been more reassuring if the car hadn’t been barreling down the street.  “I can’t explain who I am to you, Abby, but you have to trust me.  I’m a friend.”

After a long moment, Abby nodded and took her hand off the door.

 

 

**HTL_GRND_FRNT_ENTCAM_02 10/31/2012 05:02:45**

               

                Reese drove until he was certain no one was following them.  His time with Finch had shown him how little something like that meant, but old habits died hard.  Anyway, there was no GPS in the car he’d stolen, and he knew Abby no longer had her cell phone, so they wouldn’t be able to track them that way.  There were still plenty of streetcams, of course, but there wasn’t much he could do about that.

                After he felt certain they were clear, he pulled into the nearest hotel and helped Abby out of the car.  She’d stopped chattering at ninety-miles-a-second, which Reese decided to take as a good sign, but he still kept an arm around her.  For a few moments in the car there it’d looked like she was about to bolt, and he didn’t want that to happen now.

                The receptionist at the desk was predictably sleepy and unobservant, and didn’t so much as frown at Reese’s reservation of four adjoining rooms, or his name of Brent Middleton.  She just handed over the keys with a yawn.

                Once they were in the elevator, Reese touched his earpiece.  “Finch.”  He said.  “We’re safe for now, but no closer to the truth.  Apparently it was a kidnapping attempt.”

                Abby looked up at his voice.  “Who are you talking to?”  She asked.  Reese waved her to silence.

                “ _More than kidnapping, if the Machine picked up her number_.”  Finch’s voice answered.  “ _They must have been planning to kill her after the kidnapping, which means…”_

                “…it means they wanted her to do something for them.”  Reese nodded.

                “Oh, I see, you’ve got one of those neat earpiece things.  Those are really cool, they’re practically invisible and they make you look all Secret-Service-y.”  Abby noted.  “Who are you talking to?  I really hope you’re talking to the police… I mean, it sounds like you are, but…”

                “I’m talking to a friend.”  Reese assured her.  “Abby, is there anything you know that a criminal organization would want to get a hold of?  Files you could access, services you could perform, anything…?”

                Abby seemed to give this some thought.  “I could kill someone without leaving forensic evidence.”  She decided.  “And I could give them access to the NCIS Evidence locker and the lab.  But that’s it.”

                “Neither of those places sound important enough to kill someone over.”  Reese frowned.

                “Maybe they wanted to kidnap me so I could analyze stuff for them?” suggested Abby.  She subsided at Reese’s look.  “Just an idea.”

                “Most crooks don’t bother much with things like evidence and due process.”  Reese informed her.  The elevator doors opened with a little “ding!” “Don’t worry about it.  You’re safe now, finding out why you’re in danger is my job.”

                “What IS your job, exactly?”  Abby frowned at him as they paced down the hallway.

                “I just told you.  Finding out why you’re in danger.  And keeping you from dying.”  Stopping outside one of the doors, Reese slid in the keycard.  The lock beeped and the door unlocked.  “It’s really pretty simple in concept.  Though the execution can occasionally be a little more…”  he frowned, “…complicated.”

                “Well, you SOUND like a police guy,” answered Abby, entering the apartment ahead of him.  She took a minute to absorb the luxurious furnishings of the room.  “…eeexxxxcept you quite obviously have a lot more money than your average detective.”  Turning to face him, she asked, “Are you, like, part of a government program?”

                “That’s… not a bad way of looking at it.”  Reese smiled at her.

                “Oh.  That’s cool.”  Again she looked around the room.  “So, um…”  After a moment’s hesitation, she sat down on the recliner in the corner, choosing to perch on the edge instead of sinking back into the cushions.  “So… if you’re not part of the police… are we going to call them?  Because like I said, I work with cops, and attempted kidnapping is totally a police thing.

                “You might be more right than you know.”  Reese answered, his smile now a touch grimmer.  “If it’s all the same to you, I think I’d prefer to wait until we know about the situation.”            

                Abby frowned.  “Well, what am I going to do here while you’re out finding out what’s going on?”

                “Oh, I think I can find someone to help with that,” smiled Reese

 

 

                Several hours later, Abby still had no idea what was going on.  The strange man (He’d suggested she just call him ‘John’ for now) was sitting in the room’s other chair, looking at the door.  Every so often he’d get up, cross the room, and look out the window.  He’d advised Abby to get some sleep, which told her that CLEARLY he’d never been almost-kidnapped before, because how on earth was she supposed to sleep knowing there was some mysterious organization that wanted to capture her? Even if there was an obviously capable, muscular, good-looking man in the room with her.  ESPECIALLY if there was a man in the room like that.  Statistics held that most serial killers were fairly good-looking guys.  It was one of many reasons why Abby never dated classically handsome sorts, though of course there was also the fact that such men were usually arrogant, boring, and simply not interesting to her.  Someone like McGee, now…

                McGee…

                It was odd, but for some reason she really wished McGee was here right now.  Silly, really.  McGee was sweet and caring, but he wouldn’t be as able to protect her as well as tall, dark, and handsome over there.  Gibbs, Tony, or Ziva would all be much better choices in terms of the keep-Abby-from-getting-kidnapped department.  Really, she wouldn’t mind if any of them were there.  But for some reason, the one she really wanted to talk to right now was McGee.  Not because he’d know what to say, but… well, she’d just feel better.

                Maybe she’d been too hard on him.  He hadn’t done anything wrong, really.  Part of the problem was that things had been going too _right_.  It’d been too perfect, too nice, too much fun.  McGee’d really been an amazingly cool boyfriend.

                But it was the sort of perfection that couldn’t last.  Abby knew her track record with men, and she knew how relationships tended to go.  Things seemed awesome at first, until you hit the roadblock and things went south fast.  Sure, she’d known McGee much longer than any of her other ill-fated choices, but that just meant that she was saving up a butt-load of bad karma to hit her eventually.  There was probably SOMETHING crucially wrong between her and McGee, she just hadn’t found it yet.

                And then of course, things had gotten weird in the last few days… McGee’d been acting strange… almost scary, really, and he’d never done that before.  And he hadn’t taken the breakup well either… Abby shivered and hugged herself.

                John noticed and looked over.  “Cold?”

                “Not really.”  She tried a smile.  “Just thinking.”

                A rap on the door made them both look up.  Throwing her a meaningful look, John got up and silently slinked alongside the door while Abby got down behind the bed.  It wasn’t much of a cover—bathtub ceramics had a greater effect on projectile velocity than hotel-grade mattress stuffing—but Abby felt she HAD to know what was going on.

                John, alongside the door, pulled out his Walther and cocked it, but made no move to open the door.

                Again there was the knocking, somewhat different this time.  Several short raps, several long ones, a short, two long ones…  Abby’s head switched to Morse code mode.  f-i-n-c…

                “Alright, alright.”  John holstered his pistol and unlocked the door, opening it to confront the visitor.  Abby couldn’t see around him, but she could hear what he said.  “Took you long enough to get here.”

                “I thought it best to ensure I wasn’t being followed,” the new voice was equally calm, but higher, slightly nasal, and perhaps just a touch arrogant.  “And to avoid the cameras in the front lobby.  I came in through the service entrance.” 

“Where’s Bear?”

“You DO realize pets aren’t allowed in here?  I left him in the car.”  There was a pause.  “Is she safe?”

                John stood aside, and a scrawny, bespectacled man limped into the room.  He didn’t have a cane, but his whole body seemed to have a stiffness to it, particularly his leg and neck.  Probably, the medical sector of Abby’s mind reasoned, something to do with a traumatic injury to his spinal column.

                “Abby,” said John. “This is Harold.  He’s a friend who’ll look after you while I’m out hunting your kidnappers.”

                Abby couldn’t help but feel that the spinal-injury-survivor seemed like a step down from John, but she nodded and tried to smile anyway.

                “Hello, Miss Sciuto.”  Harold gave a warm smile.  “I realize this must all seem very strange to you…”

                “You could say that.”  Abby managed a laugh.

                “Perhaps some breakfast might help.  I could call the front desk…”

                “I, ah, really don’t think I could eat anything just now.”  Abby pointed out.

                “Of course.”  Harold nodded.  “Later, perhaps.”

                “Wait, are you leaving?” Abby asked, noting with alarm John’s move toward the door.

                John gave her a faintly puzzled look.  “I told you, I need to find who’s after you.”

                “You won’t be able to do it in your car.”  Harold noted, turning to face him.  “You left it parked out in front of the hotel too long.  The city towed it.”

                “Wasn’t my car to begin with.”  John shrugged.

                Harold made a noise of faint exasperation.  “Take mine.”  He said, tossing John a set of keys.  “It’s in the back lot, behind the service entrance.”

                John caught the keys without even a nod.  “Abby.”  He said, looking over at her.  “I need to leave now, but I promise that you will be safe here with Harold.”  His voice was calm, his gaze even and earnest.  “And I promise that I will find out who is after you, and make it so that you can be safe again.”

                Abby couldn’t help herself.  She surged forward and gave John a hug.  “You’re a great guy.”  She told him.

                “If you say so.”  John’s voice had a somewhat amused lilt.  “In the meantime, you should probably have this.  I picked it up off the floor when we left your apartment.”

                In his hand was the tazer.  Abby seized it with a glad little cry and cradled it next to her chest.  True, her faith had been badly shaken, but she felt safer just having it there.

                “Is that necessary?”  Harold had a pained grimace on his face.  “You know how I feel about firearms.”

                “Okay, technically, a tazer is NOT a firearm.”  Abby insisted, rounding on the spectacled man.  “The Supreme Court says so.”

                “It has a barrel, it has a trigger, it fires projectiles, how—is—it—NOT a firearm?”

                “It uses compressed air!  A firearm employs gunpowder as a means to propel its…”

                “Look, I really need to get going.”  John cut in, holding up his hands.  “Can you wait to argue this out until I leave?”

                “Oh.”  Abby subsided.  “Sorry.”

                Harold seemed to regain his composure.    “There’s an address I’ve added to your phone.”  He informed John.  “Might want to check it out.” 

                “I’ll do that.”  John nodded, glancing at it.  “Keep an eye on her.”

                And then he was gone.

 

 

**NORRIS_AVE_WEST  10/31/2012 09:23:45**

 

                “Finch?”  Reese’s hand went to his ear as he closed the door.  “I just finished going through Raburn’s place.  Not a lot there to go off of.  There are several shipping boxes in his garbage, so he received some packages recently.  I got the shipping numbers…”  He pressed a button on his handheld phone, “…maybe you can dig something up about them.”

                “ _I’ll see what I can do, Mr. Reese, but I must warn you my resources are rather limited at the moment.”_   Finch’s voice was slightly hushed.  _“The internet at this hotel is EXTREMELY unsecure, and the bandwidth is nothing like what I could want.”_

                Reese just nodded aimlessly, jogging down the hall.  “Get anything from Raburn’s account?”

                “ _Several large deposits, all made in the last few days,”_ came the reply.  _“All, apparently, cash deposits made by Mr. Raburn himself.  I’m afraid I’m running out of leads..”_

                “Why don’t you get Abby to help?” asked Reese, opening the door to the outside.

                _“Miss Scuito has finally managed to get to sleep,”_ answered Finch, somewhat snappishly.  _“Your call NEARLY woke her up, but fortunately I had the presence of mind to step into the next room.  The poor girl is exhausted!”_

                “I understand that, Finch, but I can’t do much in the field if I’m running off bad intel.”  Out by the street, Reese opened the door of a black car with darkened windows.  “If babysitting is compromising your ability to get that to me, perhaps it’s time to turn to one of our friends in the police.”

                _“I am quite capable of functioning from this location_.”  Now Finch sounded offended.  “ _Just… be more careful next time.  Also…”  There_ was the rustling of paper.  _“Miss Scuito made me write down a few things she wants you to pick up from her apartment._

                “Seriously?”  John frowned as he turned into traffic.  “Finch, I hate to break it to you, but returning to the crime scene isn’t exactly a wise move.  It was dangerous enough for me to go back there before.”

                _“The girl is scared and on the edge of shock.”_   Finch insisted.  _“She needs something more normal to restore equilibrium.  I’ve already had to talk her out of calling the police three times.”_

                Reese frowned.  “What are the odds HR is involved?”

                _“Slim.  They don’t hire outside contractors like Raburn.  But all it would take for them to get involved is a fat enough paycheck, and any one of these payments in Raburn’s account would convince them to let slip some information.”_

                John sighed.  “I’m on my way now to a place that sells listening devices like the one we found on her umbrella, Finch, but I suppose I could drop by.”

                _“Actually I think you should wait.”_   Finch answered.  _“Abby’s disappearance was noted an hour ago.  The police are searching her apartment.  But once it’s safe…”_

                “I’ll be on it.”  Reese assured him.

 

 

                “Please stop that.”

                “But I’m bored!”  Abby wailed from the bed as she fiddled with the tazer in her hand.  “Look, I appreciate the ‘saving me from kidnapping’ thing you guys did, but honestly, there’s only so much on the TV, you won’t let me surf the internet, and I have nothing to do!  If I don’t find something to work on eventually I’m going to die of boredom.”

                “Dying of boredom is at any rate less permanent than dying of a gunshot.”  Finch looked up.  “Do you want me to order dinner?  You must be hungry.”

                Abby rolled over and looked at Finch upside down.  “We just ate lunch like an hour ago.”

                “Lunch for me.  A very late breakfast for you.”

                Groaning, Abby flopped back to her original position.  “I’m not hungry, I’m just bored.  Look, can I at least head back to my apartment and get my computer?  It’s got some games on it, I could play those and I wouldn’t be surfing the internet…”

                “Your apartment  is doubtless being watched.  Returning there would invite a second attack,” replied Finch.  “John will get your things and he’ll bring them here as soon as it’s safe, just… be patient.”

                Pushing herself off the bed, Abby skipped over to Finch and looked over his shoulder.  “What’re you up to, anyway?”

                Starting, Finch recoiled a little from her with a small exasperated noise.  “Miss Sciuto, I must ask you NOT to do that, I grow nervous when people are in close proximity to me.”

                Abby ignored him, staring at the screen.  “Wow!  Where’d you get these specs?  This is a pretty high-end listening device.”

                “I’m aware.” Finch said, returning to his study of the screen.  “They’re available from only a few select stores in the greater New York area.”

                “Uh, they shouldn’t be available from ANY stores.”  Abby frowned.  “Pretty sure it’s illegal for anyone to have their hands on one.”

                Finch gave another absentminded nod. “I think this person wasn’t terribly concerned about that.”

                “Whaddaya got on it?”

                “Well, my associate has questioned the respective shop owners about their clientele over the last few weeks, but none of them have sold a tracking device like that to anyone matching Raburn’s description.  Which means either Mr. Raburn brought his equipment in from out of town, or he had a confederate supplying him with tech like this.”  Finch took his glasses off and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

                “Mr. Raburn? Is that the guy who attacked me?” Abby leaned in a bit more, practically crowding Finch out.  “Say, if you still have the bug thing, I could dust it for fingerprints and stuff.  I mean, I don’t have my lab, but I’m sure I could whip something up.”

                “As a civilian, Miss Sciuto, you do not have access to the fingerprint records.  Any prints you DID find would be largely worthless.”

                “Not to you guys!  You guys are government, right?  You could look up the prints!’  Abby pleaded.   “C’mon, you gotta give me SOMETHING to do.  I’m B.O.R.E. D.”

                Finch paused in his typing to look at her.  Finally he shrugged, opened up his suitcase, and handed her a small plastic bag.  “Is there anything you need to help with your work?”

                “Just gimme your credit card and the room service number.”  Abby answered, grinning victoriously.

                “Try not to order anything that would draw attention to this address.”  Finch warned, handing over the card.

                “Not a problem.”  Abby assured him, snagging the card.  “Ordinary household goods.  Got it.”

                As Abby bounded over to the room phone, Finch’s own cell buzzed.  “Hello, Mr. Reese.”

 _“Finch.”_   The answer came.  _“We need to work on our communication.”_

“Why?  Did you have some difficulty acquiring the items from Ms. Scuito’s apartment?”  Abby looked up at her name and Finch gave her a little smile.  “That doesn’t sound like you.”

_“No, I’ve got her things, but we have a problem.  Her team’s here.”_

Finch sat up straighter.  “I… see.”  He said finally.  “Yes.  I should have anticipated that.  That… could be problematic.”  Something seemed to occur to him.  “It opens up several interesting possibilities, though.  In either case, we must prevent this news from… getting out.”

_“All right.  Keep her occupied while I do some more sniffing around. We need to figure out who wants Abby dead.”_

“Agreed.”  Finch nodded.  “Drop by when you get a spare moment, we need to discuss some things.”

 

 

                “Oh AWESOME!”  Abby exulted, digging out the toothbrush.  “My teeth just do not feel the same if they’re not being brushed by a skull-and-crossbones.  And my hairbrush too!”  She continued, digging further in the bag.  “You really DID get everything for me.”  Dropping the bag, she bounced off the bed and gave Reese a big hug.  “Thanks, John Whatever-your-last-name-is!”

                Reese gave a small grunt of pain.  “You’re welcome, Abby.”  He gave her a smile as she released him.  “You may want to clean the bathroom before you use those… it looks like quite a mess in there.”

                “Oh that.”  Abby shrugged.  “I’m just using it as a crime lab.  I’ll be done soon.  Hey, did you bring my…”  She turned back to the bag.  “Makeup brush.  PERFECT.  That’s all I need.  See you later, John!”

                As Abby ducked into the bathroom, Finch gave Reese a meaningful look and jerked his head to the next room.  The two men exited into the adjoining room and shut the door behind them.

                “You’ve got her dusting for fingerprints?”  Reese raised an eyebrow.  “I thought we were going to send that to our police friends.  They have labs for these things, you know.”

                “Under the circumstances, I thought it better for Miss Sciuto to take a look.”  Finch answered, glancing back to the door.  “A bug is too suspicious, the police might feel inclined to follow up on the transmission signal.  Miss Sciuto is a thoroughly capable forensic specialist, I am quite confident she will find whatever there is to be found.  Besides…” Again he glanced at the door, “…it will keep her busy.”

                “She doesn’t know about her partners yet?”

                “Fortunately, Naval crime officers tend not to be very high-profile.”  Finch murmured.  “I’ve been keeping her off the internet, but she keeps switching on the television at odd intervals.  I can’t watch her all the time, Mr. Reese.”

                “Perhaps you don’t have to.”  Reese shrugged.  “The agents I met at the apartment seemed quite capable… they could keep Abby safe from HR or whoever is after her.”

                “Yes, unless one of them is trying to kill her.”  Finch answered, flashing Reese an annoyed look.  “Agent McGee is still our number one suspect, and that’s just looking at obvious motives.  Officer David has ties to foreign agencies, Agent DiNozzio is ambitious and unscrupulous, and Agent Gibbs…”  Finch stopped and thought.  “…Agent Gibbs has no possible motive to kill her.  He is probably reliable, but he is far too trusting of his team, and unlikely to perceive any threat from within.”

                A small grin was playing around the corners of Reese’s mouth.  “Now Finch, just because someone isn’t as paranoid as you…”

                “It’s an unacceptable risk, Mr. Reese.”  Finch insisted.  “We continue working this until we’ve managed to clear her team of suspicion.”

                “Fine.”  Reese heaved a sigh.  “Dig up anything off those shipping numbers I gave you?”

                “All mailed from Post Office Drop boxes.  No return address.  Surveillance is inconclusive, there’s no car that visits the post office on every day in question.  They must have used multiple vehicles.”

                “Check for stolen cars.”  Reese advised him.  “Easy enough to steal a car and use that to drop off the package.”

                “It’s worth a shot.”  Finch shrugged.  “I’m afraid the shipping accounts were a dead end.  I’ll get started on the mailing angle.  Perhaps we’ll get lucky.”

                “I wouldn’t count on it.”  Reese moved for the door.  “Luck doesn’t seem to be on our side this time.”

 

 

                “Doing bathroom forensics is SO cool!”  Abby exulted, coming up to Harold, who was still crouched over his computer.  “Adds a whole new level of complexity, trying to account for an unsterile environment and formulating analysis methods out of home products.  I should do this more often.”

                “Perhaps, next time, without someone trying to kill you,” observed Harold, still bent over his computer.

                “Well yeah.  Without that.”  Abby frowned.  Brightening, she waggled the small card in her hand.  “Anyway, done now!”

                His interest finally caught, Harold turned around.  “You found a print?”

                “Hmm?  Oh no.  I gave up on that about two hours ago.  That thing is as clean as a disinfectant plant.  No, this is more interesting.  See, I decided to analyze the different components of the tracking bug, and found something interesting.  They all have separate serial numbers.  Of course, I can’t look up the different serial numbers, but I thought you might be able to do some wizarding stuff with that laptop of yours.”  Abby handed over the card.

                Harold took the card and looked over the numbers scribbled onto it.  “These are the numbers?  You’re sure?”

                Abby’s grin widened.  “Ah, you noticed it too then!  The first five digits are all different, which means they each came from separate factories, which means…!”

                “This was independently assembled.”  Harold finished.

                “Bingo!  Which makes a lot of sense, seeing how there was no serial number for the whole unit, and it was bound together with standard solder, not welded.  So we did some bathroom forensics to catch somebody who was doing garage-style electronics!  And doing it dang well!”

                Harold started typing in on his computer.  “Your ex-boyfriend, Timothy McGee, could he assemble something like this?”

                “Maybe?  Electronics aren’t his thing so much, he focuses on like hacking and stuff.  I mean, he PROBABLY could if he wanted to and how do you know about McGee?” asked Abby, her mind finally catching up with the question.  “Or that he’s my boyfriend?”

                Harold turned to look at her, somewhat surprised.  “Your online profile suggested that the relationship had been terminated.”

                “Well… yeah, but that doesn’t…”  Abby looked away, clearly uncomfortable.  “I should really be more careful about what I post online.”  She muttered.  “Anyway, why are you asking about McGee and this tracking device?  The only reason you’d do that is if you suspected him of…”  Her eyes widened.  “You’re not seriously suspecting _him_ of trying to kill me, are you?”

                Meeting her accusing gaze with just a hint of apology, Harold answered, “Miss Scuito, it is our role to suspect everyone.  Particularly those whom you yourself trust.”

                “But…”  Abby held up her hands.  “Look, you don’t know McGee, or else you’d realize what an absolutely LUDicrous idea that is.  Okay?  He’s… I mean, you can’t hardly get a more by-the-book guy than McGee.  Besides, it’s not like this is the first breakup he’s had.  Or really the only one he’s had with me.  It’s nothing special.”

                “Really?  Than why the sudden vacation?”  Harold eyed her.

                “Well it was just… I was just…”  Abby fumbled for the right words.

                With a few last clicks, Harold turned his laptop to face Abby.  “Mr. McGee’s online presence suggests that the breakup affected him more strongly than you may realize.”

                “Wha…”  Abby gaped at the screen.  Facebook, Twitter, Xanga… all public enough venues, where no one who knew as much as McGee trusted anything important.  Easy to access.  But the chat logs, those were harder to find.  And the e-mail records, the archives…  “How… how did you get all this?”

                The man’s face betrayed neither embarrassment nor pride.  “I’m very good at what I do, Miss Scuito.”

                Abby wasn’t really listening anymore.  She was reading.  _Feel like I’m torn apart… just when you think you’ve found the one… great empty loneliness… do anything to get her back…_

                Harold’s gaze softened as he watched her face.  “I’m sorry.”  He said, starting to turn the laptop back.

                “Wait!”  Abby grabbed the screen before he could take it away.  “I… let me read.”

                Apparently surprised, Harold hesitated for a moment, then handed the laptop over with a nod.  “I’ll… leave you alone, then.”  He said, rising.  Pausing in the doorway, he added: “Perhaps… with your experience of Mr. McGee’s mannerisms… you could let us know if you spot any irregularities.”

                Abby barely heard the door close.

 

 

 **PNKTON_AVE_WST 32 11/1/2012 10:23:47**           

                “You gave her access?”  Reese frowned.  “That doesn’t sound like you, Finch.  You’re normally such a private person.”

                _“She insisted.”_

                “I’m not sure how healthy it is for a girl to go through her boyfriend’s illegally stolen files,” answered Reese.  “It might not be good for a girl to learn EXACTLY how a man feels about her.  Besides, it sounds almost like stalking.”

_“Her assistance is invaluable.  She definitely has more experience with Agent McGee than either one of us.”_

                “And more bias.”  Reese took a bite of the noodles from the box in his hand.  “Besides, Agent McGee might be nothing more than a red herring.”

                _“Do you have some new information, Mr. Reese?”_   Finch’s voice took on a tone of interest.

                “Nothing definitive.”  Reese admitted.  “I managed to locate a storage container Raburn had under a false identity.  Investigated some of the local facilities on a hunch and struck gold on the fifth.  Fortunately lepers are quite… memorable.”

_“Anything in there?”_

                “Quite a bit.  I may need to find another closet for my collection of confiscated weaponry.”  Reese gave a fond glance at the closed hood of the trunk.  “But it seems Raburn was a cagey fellow.  He kept records on all his employers, in case he ever needed a safeguard against them, I imagine.  I dropped a line to Carter, the NYPD is about to crack a bunch of cases wide open.”

                _“Anything on his latest?”_   Finch sounded very definitely excited.

                “Not much.”  Reese picked up the folder resting beside him on the car.  “He says the contractor used a voice scrambler and paid in cash, like you said.  The shipping packages were from the equipment he was using. The tracker, the camera, the cash, even all the throwaway phones he used to keep in touch with the contractor—they all came in the mail.”

                _“I examined the surveillance footage from the shipping,”_ answered Finch, sounding slightly frustrated. _“You were correct, there were stolen cars at all instances, but the driver stayed out of sight of the cameras.”_

                “Raburn was trying to get a feel for the contractor.”  Reese said, thumbing through the files.  “He notes that the phone-calls were highly detailed and very well laid-out, so he theorized the person was something of a control freak and used to being in charge.  Well-funded obviously, and with a great deal of technical backing.”

                _“This doesn’t tell us anything.  It could be a whole organization after Miss Scuito, from this description.”_

                Reese inclined his head in agreement.  “The profile doesn’t exactly fit Agent McGee, but it could be a side of him that doesn’t show up in his report.  However, the contractor slipped up during one of their phone conversations.  When he reported in on the 29th, the contractor asked if he’d noted ‘that cute guy who saved the target from the car.’”

                There was a slight pause.  _“Which would indicate the contractor is a woman.”_

                “It at least makes it unlikely the contractor was Agent McGee.”  Reese nodded.  “Although it could be a deliberate move.  Or a middleman of some kind, but that seems unlikely.”

                _“You want to keep the circle small on these sort of things.”_

                “What’s more interesting is that the contractor told him to specifically look out for me,” continued Reese, frowning at the file.  “Maybe someone who knew me from the old days.  In the meantime…” he looked up.  “Raburn’s file notes that he was supposed to take Abby to a truck stop a few miles from the apartment complex and meet up with green SUV.  So…”  He took another bite of noodles.  “…I’m on stakeout.”

                _“Excellent work, Mr. Reese.”_   Finch replied with animation.  _“See if you can get access to the tapes, I need to…”_

                “Hang on.”  Reese said, cutting his employer off.  “I’m getting movement from the other two agents.”

                _“David and DiNozzio?  They were still at Raburn’s apartment, last I checked.”_

                “They’re moving now.   Split up.”  Reese frowned at the blinking dots on his phone.  “It looks… it looks like David is heading back to Abby’s apartment.”

                _“Why?  They’re all finished there.”_

                Reese pushed himself off the trunk and jogged to the car door.  “They must have found something at Raburn’s that I missed.”

 

 

                Abby didn’t mean to spend so long on the files, but there were just so MANY.  Plenty were small, incidental things… video game patches, messages sent from different NCIS departments or information services, specs on the latest software from NVIDIA… Trivial enough matters.  Some she’d even seen before.  But the more recent information, that was riveting.

                She’d known McGee was upset after they broke up, but she hadn’t guessed how badly he had really taken it.  A part of her wondered if he was like this with everything.  It couldn’t be good.  You had to let this stuff out, or it just built and built until it exploded.  Although—she frowned at the screen—she supposed he HAD let it out, in a way.  Still, ranting on anonymous message boards only got you so far.

                She scrolled up a little more, and suddenly her eyes got very wide.  McGee’s latest Tweet read: “The case looks bad.  Hope we get a break soon. #worriedinNYC”

                New York City?  McGee?  Here?  And if he was on a case, that meant the team… but of course!  Abby laughed and smacked her head for being so stupid.  Gibbs and the others had probably flown down the second she’d been missed.  Oh, man, they must be worried sick!

                Abby bounded over to the bedside table.  She was nearly laughing with relief.  All this time she’d been aching to talk to the team, and they were right here in town!

                She picked up the headset, pressed one to call outside the hotel, and hesitated.  She really wanted to talk to McGee, but with all she’d read… after a moment’s thought she began to tap out Gibb’s number.  It barely got a full ring in before there was a click, and a beautifully familiar voice answered: _“Special Agent Gibbs, NCIS.”_

A huge smile split Abby’s face as she heard the voice.  “Gibbs!”  She squealed.

                There was a short, disbelieving pause.  _“…Abs?”_  

                “Yeah!”  Abby grinned at the obvious astonishment in his tone.  She’d surprised Gibbs!  She’d been wanting to surprise him since, like, forever.  “I just saw you guys on the news!  Ohmigosh, I am so glad you’re…”

                A hand came out of nowhere and clapped down on the hook, cutting the phone to silence.  Abby glanced up in surprise to behold Harold’s face, pale and drawn.

                “…here.”  Abby’s voice faded away. 

                “What have you done!?” asked Harold frantically.  “Who did you just call?”

                “Just my team.  They’re…”

                Finch’s hand went to his ear.  “Mr. Reese, get back here, now!”  Motioning with his hand, he pulled Abby to her feet.  “Gather your things.  The stuff you did in the bathroom too.  Hurry!”

                “I… don’t get it…”  Abby protested, picking her  things up from the bedside table regardless.  “Look, I know you don’t trust them, but I’m telling you…”

                “It’s not just that!” snapped the birdlike man, closing up the laptop and sliding it into a bag.  “Whoever’s after you is bound to be watching your team!  They can trace the call!”

                “Oh,” Abby said, feeling realization wash over her.  “Oh, right.”

                “We need to move to a new location,” said Harold, sweeping the papers from the desk into his briefcase.  “Don’t leave anything they could trace to us.”

                Abby flew into the bathroom, gathering her toothbrush, hair bands, makeup.  The makeshift lab set took longer to disable… she ended up flushing most of it down the toilet.  She piled the rest into a bag and hauled it back into the main room.

                She was digging her tazer out of the bedside drawer when Harold came hurrying in from the other room.  “I have a few safehouses around the city.”  He informed her.  “I’ve asked John to meet us at the nearest one, we’ll work from there on how to…”

                The door to the room smashed open.  Abby looked up just in time to see several heavyset men clad all in black come storming into the room.  Harold thrust himself at them, yelling something to her. 

Abby couldn’t hear it, she already had her tazer out, pointed at the foremost man.  The weapon fired with a bang of compressed air, and the thug went down in a very reassuring fashion. 

But there were two more behind him, and Abby had only one tazer.  Harold was thrown aside like a rag doll.  Abby grabbed for the table lamp and tried to club the man with it,  but he dodged her clumsy blow and swatted it aside.  The other man reached out with a black cloth bag, there was a small prick on her neck…

Abby was gone.

 

 

                “…inch… Finch!  Harold!”

                Fighting his way back to consciousness, Finch put out a hand to stop the blur above him.  “…aaah… aa… just… just give me a minute.”

                “Harold, are you all right?”  The blur cleared somewhat, but Harold could still make out little more than a pair of concerned blurs beneath a dark silver blur..  “What happened here?”

                “Abby… called her teammates…”

                “I know, they’re on their way.  Harold, we need to go NOW.”  John was pulling him to his feet, toward the door.

                “My glasses…” Finch protested, groping vainly about in the air, as if expecting to find them floating there.

                “You’ll have to buy a new pair.  Take it out of my paycheck.  Come on!”  John half-dragged him down the hallway.  “No, not the elevators.  Not the stairs, either, they’ll be coming up that!  Here, keep going, on to the back.”  The service door had a lock on it, but a swift blow from the fire extinguisher in John’s hand soon changed that.  The two of them stumbled out onto the back stairwell.  “Here, this should take us to the parking garage.”

                “Won’t they… have that… surrounded?”

                “They’re not looking for you.  Think you can drive without your glasses?”

                “Won’t… need to.”  Finch’s concentration was coming back.  “Spare set… in the glove compartment.”  He frowned at what he could see of John’s face.  “You ARE still using my car, aren’t you?”

                “Couldn’t exactly take Bear around in a stolen car.”  There was an amused lilt to John’s voice as they clattered down the stairs.  “Talk to me, Finch.  What happened?”

                “They must have been… monitoring her team’s communications.” Finch shook his head.  “They traced the call and found us.”

                “What were they like?”

                “Three men…moved like they were trained.”  Finch frowned as he remembered something else.  “…no firearms.  They were carrying clubs of some kind, but no guns.”

                “Perhaps didn’t want to risk a firefight in a hotel.”  Reese reasoned.  “How long did it take them to find you?”

                “Not long.”  Finch shook his head.  “John, this is… very bad.  Whoever can track the call and arrange a hit team before even the federal agents can respond is… very talented.”

                Reese just shook his head.  “That’s not really a surprise.  I’m afraid I have some news, Finch.”

 

               

                Back at the library, Finch sat in his chair, staring at the screens pensively.  Reese paced around the room, fingering the different pictures.

                “Root,” said Finch at last. 

                “Should have picked up on that ‘Caroline Babbage’ name.”  Reese said.  “Wasn’t thinking at the time.  Apparently she’s blonde now.”

“Simple enough to manage.”  Finch shook his head.  “Records indicate she was blonde as a child, she must have been using dye throughout our association. I must confess I was hoping we’d seen the last of her.  No wonder the digital footprint’s been so elusive.”

                “So we have our perpetrator.”  Reese tapped the picture on the glass.  “But not our killer.  From the sounds of things, those new guys weren’t out to kill her either.  Or you.”

                Finch frowned.  “That fails to comfort me, Mr. Reese.”  He leant forward on the desk.  “In all likelihood, Miss Scuito has been kidnapped to perform a task.  She will probably be killed upon its completion.”

                “So we have a little time left.”  Reese nodded.  “But what could a hacker like Root want with a forensic scientist?”

                “Root DOES take up contract work,” observed Finch.  “But only when it interests her.  And just now, she has only one interest.”

                “The Machine.”  Reese nodded.

                “But Miss Sciuto has no connection to the Machine, so why would Root be interested in her?”  Finch considered.  “She’s demonstrated that she has no difficulty in getting away with murder, and there’s no system Miss Scuito has access to that could benefit her.”

                “Doesn’t make a difference.”  Reese moved to the door.  “She’s missing, and she needs help.  We need to get to work finding her.  See what you can find out from the webcam, I’m going back to stake out that truck stop.”

                “Mr. Reese.”  Finch stopped him in the doorway.  “Before you do… bear in mind that the NCIS team is now aware of your identity.”

                Reese shrugged.  “Four more sets of eyes in a city of a few million… I think I can handle it.”

                “They’ll think you have their team member,” continued Finch, pressing the issue.  “They will leave no stone unturned… former associates, your CIA files, Agent Donnelly’s work on you…  everything.”

                “Again, that’s not really new.”  Reese threw his employer an odd look.  “You told me the risks when I took this job, Finch.  What’s new this time?”

                “Agent Gibb’s record is… very impressive.”  Finch said, frowning at the screen.  “At best, his pursuit of you could… severely hamper our own investigation.”

                Shrugging, Reese moved out the door.  “I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

                “Indeed,” nodded Finch, looking down at his phone.

 

 

**COSTCAM EXT 03 11/1//2012 23:36:19**

 

The glare of the overhead lights lit up the near pavement of the truckstop in harsh white, leaving anything beyond their circle a pitch black. In this darkness, a black car pulled up to a stop and a silver-haired man emerged.

He paced over to an empty parking spot, looked down at the ground, looked over at the nearby camera, then crouched to study the pavement more closely.

“Mr. Reese?”  The voice sounded in his ear.  “Mr. Reese, we have another number.”

                “Get to it in a minute, Finch.”  John answered, still studying the ground.  “I’m inspecting the handoff point.”

                “Then wrap it up quickly.  The new number is Ms. Sciuto’s partner, Timothy McGee.”


	7. Double-Dealing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The NCIS team jumps into high gear as Finch and Reese trail their newest number, Timothy McGee.

 

The NCIS team had been working nearly non-stop since the hotel incident, and it was a very tired team that gathered in front of Gibb’s desk.  For his part, Gibbs looked more grim than tired.  “Abby’s been missing over 72 hours.”  He snapped.  “Give me some good news.”

“IA says police corruption has been down across the board since the FBI probe,” responded Tony.  “HR’s probably not all gone, but if they’re still around, they’re too weak to be much of a threat.  When I asked about their association with our mystery man, the guy laughed.  He said apparently that man was a consistent thorn in their side—messed up a lot of their operations.  They don’t know, but they think he was the one who put the FBI on their trail.”

“Makes sense why they’d want him dead then.”  Gibbs nodded. 

“As for what they’d want with Abby…” Tony shrugged his shoulders helplessly.  “Sorry, boss.  Apparently HR has plenty of forensic experts in their pocket already.  The only answer is that they might be in the kidnap-for-hire business.”

Gibbs shook his head.  “They’re down and licking their wounds, the last thing they’d want would be to draw attention by kidnapping a federal agent, whatever the money involved.  Still, they could be paid to turn a blind eye.  Ziva!”

“I could glean little from your official CIA documents.”  Ziva let the folder fall to the desk in disgust.  “Anything important has been redacted.  I did learn he is a sniper of considerable skill, but that had already been deduced from Donnelly’s information.  The only really new information was that he was presumed dead after a recovery mission in China went awry.  Until his prints turned up in New York, the file was considered closed.”

Gibbs’ eyes narrowed.  “Was there any follow-up of his mission?  An investigation team, an internal probe, anything?”

“I really cannot say.”  Ziva shook her head.  “There is incredibly little detail about the recovery mission, in fact that particular file is missing from the ones supplied by Kort.  It is only mentioned in passing on the agent’s profile.”

“Do we at least know his name?”

“Not from these files.”  Ziva shook her head.

Gibbs heaved a sigh and looked away.  “Wonderful.”

“Fortunately…” there was a small twist to Ziva’s mouth.  “I was able to use the CIA files to dig up some more… unofficial information.”  She smirked as the others’ eyes turned to her.  “Several of the missions in the files were in the Middle East, or in situations that my people were involved in.  I called some friends in MOSSAD to ask about what they remembered.”

Tony raised an eyebrow.  “You still have friends there?”

“They were unwilling to share details about the missions themselves,” continued Ziva, fixing Tony with a glare.  “But when asked about a tall American sniper with silver hair, they were slightly more forthcoming.  Apparently our man goes by the name of ‘John Reese.’  Almost definitely a pseudonym, and probably not the name he uses now, but…”

“But it’s a start.”  Gibbs smiled.  “Excellent work, Ziva.  Anything else?”

Ziva nodded.  “Mr. Reese isn’t the type to go rogue.  He’s much too by-the-book.  While overseas, he reportedly followed the orders of a woman known only as Stanton.”  Ziva passed a new picture, a slightly grainy image of a brunette woman on a Moscow street, around the circle.  “My sources indicated that Reese is not one to act on his own initiative… without a handler or employer of some kind, he is, for lack of a better word, lost.”

“You think he was framed?”  Gibbs lifted an eyebrow.

Apparently caught by surprise, Ziva blinked for a bit before she came up with an answer.  “It is definitely possible.  I…. was more interested in the fact that his involvement here implies that there is another ‘cat in the bag.’”

Tony winced.  “Ziva, that’s not how that…”

“We know he has a confederate already.”  Gibbs cut the agent off.  “But if he was framed, whoever he’s currently working for may have arranged his ‘demise’ to render him available.”

“You think, boss?”  Tony blinked.

                Gibbs shrugged.  “Stranger things have happened.  Definitely an angle to look into.  McGee!”

                Looking significantly worse than the other two agents, McGee managed a nod.  “Compiled the security footage from the hotel before it cut out.  Modeled it on a 3-D graph of the building.” With a click, he brought up the image on the screen.  “Unfortunately, it doesn’t tell us much more than we already noticed—he’s being chased by cops, and he’s got someone watching the cameras for him.  What’s more interesting is the woman’s behavior.”

                “The woman?”  Tony glanced up.

                “Donnelley’s report hypothesized that the brunette pictured with ‘John’ was a hostage—he kept her close and didn’t let her out of his sight.”  McGee explained, pointing to the image.  “But it’s practically the opposite.  SHE keeps close to him, SHE keeps her eyes on him.  He’s too busy watching out for the cops and FBI.  But she sticks right along, despite several excellent opportunities to escape.”

                “Like Abby at the front desk,” agreed Tony.

                McGee gave another weary nod.  “The clerk said the woman seemed nervous, but if you look at the footage…” Again a click.  “…it’s very much like what we saw with Abby at the hotel.  Watching the door, staying close to the man.”

                Ziva frowned.  “Stockholm’s Syndrome.”

                “With this woman, maybe, but he didn’t have Abby long enough for that.” Gibbs shook his head.  “Abs is trusting, but not THAT trusting.”

                “Maybe he and his partner always use this line on girls.”  Tony suggested.  “Set up a threat, neutralize the threat they created…”

                “…forming an illusory bond between themselves and the victim, putting the victim in their debt and willing to render them favors.”  Ziva nodded.  “It fits.”

                A tired grin twisted McGee’s mouth.  “I managed to analyze a lot of that city surveillance, too.  Not all of it—there’s a lot—and ‘John’ seems to know how to avoid cameras. But there is one interesting fact.  He seems to attach himself to people in danger.  And he’s always…”

                “…in the wrong place at the right time,” finished Gibbs grimly.  “I knew I was hating that phrase. Definitely lends support to Ziva and Tony’s theory.”

                Tony glanced at his boss curiously.  “You don’t buy it, boss?”

                “All the pieces fit, it just doesn’t feel right.”  Gibbs sighed.  “Alright, Tony, see what you can find out about the people on McGee’s tapes.  Ziva, try to find out everything you can about how this guy got fired from the CIA.  And while you’re at it, look to see if you can pick up anything on any enemies he has.”

                “Enemies?” asked Tony.

                Gibbs shrugged.  “Just a thought.  That hotel room was too badly smashed for just Abby fighting back.”

                Tony thought this over for a moment.  “You think someone snatched her from the snatchers.”  He realized.

                “A third faction?”  Ziva groaned.  “This is making no sense.”

                “Could be the first one, the one Raburn was working for.  Of course, if you’re right and Raburn was working for John’s group, then this is really only the second faction.  Or maybe it is a third, I don’t know!”  Gibbs waved his hand in the air in frustration.  “Whoever it is, there’s a strong chance this ‘John’ doesn’t have her anymore, and finding him won’t find us Abby.  But it’ll get us a step closer, and right now that’s enough.  McGee!”

                The computer specialist gave a limp nod, screwing his eyes nearly shut in thought.  “Keep looking into the cell phone tower shutdown, compile the rest of the surveillance data…”

                “No!”  Gibbs cut him off.  “Go back to your apartment and get some rest.”

                McGee blinked.  “Uh… yes boss.”

                “Good.  Dismissed!”

                As the others moved back to their desks, Gibbs motioned to McGee to come closer.  “Quick question for you.”  He muttered.  “You ever hear of a hacker called ‘Root?’”

                McGee appeared startled by the question.  “What makes you ask that?”

                “Just answer the question.”

                After a moment’s thought, McGee shook his head.  “Can’t say I have, sir.  Sorry.  Why?”

                “Never mind.”  Gibbs turned back to his desk. 

 

* * *

 

 

As the elevator doors closed, Agent McGee sighed and slumped against the wall.  Passing a hand through his hair, he stared up at the ceiling for a moment as the elevator descended.  His hands were shaking, and he was nervously chewing his lower lip.  A sudden ring startled him from his reverie, and he withdrew a black phone from his pocket.  Paling at the image, he hurriedly typed in a reply, hit “send,” then waited anxiously for another text.

                He was still waiting as he climbed into the bus outside, barely noticing the driver and other passengers.  He kept bringing out his phone, checking it, sighing, and sticking it back into his pocket.

                In fact, he was so busy at this, he didn’t notice the grey-haired suit sitting several seats behind him, nor the man’s evident frustration.  “He keeps looking at his phone, Finch.”  Reese muttered, under his breath.  “I can’t bluejack it while he’s using it.”

                _“Do be careful, Mr. Reese.  Agent McGee may not have met you, but by this time he’s doubtless studied a great many of your photos._

                “I’m being as careful as I can, Finch,” answered Reese, staring daggers at the man.  “But we can’t have much time.”

                _“Agreed.  Root not only knows about the Machine, she knows about us.  She’d have to know that exposing her intentions in public would draw our attention.”_

                Reese nodded.  “And yet she did it anyway.  Could she be trying to draw us into a trap?”

                _“Does it make a difference?”_   Finch’s voice had a somewhat ironic edge.

                “Not… really,” answered Reese after a moment’s thought.  “I just like to know when I’m walking into a trap.  Is there any chance Root ISN’T the one behind this threat?”

 _“Yes.  An infinitesimally small one, but a chance.  Mr. McGee is a government agent, after all, he has many enemies.  Just relatively few ones in New York that would prefer his death over the others.”_   Finch sounded puzzled.  _“Though I admit I can’t quite see WHY Root would want a computer expert.”_

                “She wouldn’t,” answered Reese, still studying the man.  He seemed to have just gotten a text, which made him slump against the window in relief.  “But she might want Ms. Scuito’s ex-boyfriend to use as leverage.”

                There was silence from the other side of the line.  Then:  “ _So Ms. Scuito is alive.”_

                “And kicking.  If Root is risking exposure to get a hostage, than she hasn’t gotten whatever she wants her for.”

                _“Well in any case, we need to keep Agent McGee under constant surveillance.”_   Finch decided.  _“But with his team on the lookout for you, it’s going to be hard to plant bugs or tap into his cell.  We may need help on this one.”_

                “I’m already ahead of you, Finch,” answered Reese.

 

* * *

 

 

                Detective Lionel Fusco sat in the coffeeshop, fingers playing nervously on the rim of his cup.  For the third time he checked the phone in his pocket and glanced toward the door.

                A large manila envelope was slapped down in front of him.  “Read,” said McGee, sliding into the bench across from him.

                “What the heck’s going on here?”  Fusco demanded.  “Where do you feds get off ordering me to drop my day job and come meet with you at some backwater type…”

                “Read.”  McGee repeated.

                Grumbling, Fusco opened the envelope and started to flip through its contents.  After a moment he glanced back up.  “What the hell is this for?”

                “Official records.”  McGee responded.  “My partners mentioned you were involved with Stills, so I did some digging.  Turns out you were the investigating officer in every one of those cases he fixed.”  He quirked an eyebrow at the heavyset man across from him.  “Looks a little suspicious.  As does your affiliation with Sergeant Rush.  You know, the one that was found shot at a crime scene? Not the greatest character reference.”

                Fusco raised an eyebrow.  “So what, me working with a few dirty cops means I’m one too?  In case you ain’t been reading the papers, half the department was on the take back then.   Couldn’t’ move for stepping on the guys.”

                McGee shrugged.  “I don’t know about that.  Mysterious disappearances, sudden transfers, IA investigations that suddenly get dropped…  I’m not exactly Sherlock Holmes, but I can see a pattern.”

                Fusco sighed heavily and dropped the folder.  “Whaddaya want from me?”

                “Nothing out of the ordinary.  Obviously you’ve, ah, got a flexible work schedule, so I want you to take on a side job.”

                “That missing teammate of yours.”  Fusco guessed.  “Half the department’s on her case already, kiddo, one more detective ain’t gonna make that much of a difference.”

                “It’s not quite that simple,” answered McGee, shaking his head.  Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a lipstick container in a clear plastic bag.  “This has Abby’s DNA on it.  You’re going to discover it somewhere in Manhattan.  Doesn’t particularly matter where, you probably have a better idea than I do.  When it’s discovered, the police search will move to that district.”

                “You want me to plant evidence?”

                McGee shrugged and plucked a roll of bills from his suitcoat.

                Fusco’s eyebrows jumped.  “Hey, you want me to find lipstick, I’ll find lipstick,” he said, taking the bag and the bills.  “Anything else, while you’re at it?”

                “This.”  McGee slid an envelope with a little post-it note attached to it.  “When you’ve taken care of that, send me a text.  Another thousand will be sent to your home address.”

                “You got it, boss.  Mind if I see your phone?”

                McGee shrugged and handed it over.  Taking it, Fusco raised his eyebrows at the background image.  “Not a bad lookin’ gal.  Is that…”

                “Yes,” answered McGee.

                Fusco had the grace to look embarrassed.  Taking out his own phone, he began to punch in numbers.

                “After you’ve sent the text, delete the message and the number.”  McGee ordered.

                “Right.”  Fusco handed the phone back and stood up.  “Pleasure working with you.”

                “I’m sure it is,” muttered McGee.

                Fusco passed out of the coffeehouse and onto the sidewalk.  After glancing both ways, he walked about a block south and turned the corner.

                “Well?” said Reese.

                Fusco handed him his phone.  “Did it exactly like you said.”

                “Good,” answered Reese, looking at the screen.  It read ‘FORCE CLONING SUCCESSFUL.’  “Not bad work, Lionel.”

                “Whaddaya want me to do with these?”  Fusco indicated the lipstick, envelope, and money.

                Reese started to move away.  “Whatever you like.”

 

 

* * *

 

                “Planting evidence is pretty serious.”  Reese observed.  “Got to say, I am curious as to why loverboy’s putting his friends on the wrong track.”

                “He’s not.”  Finch answered, typing away on the computer.

                Reese thought this over.  “You mean he knows something we don’t?  Why hasn’t he shared it with his teammates then?”

                “I MEAN it’s not him misleading them.”  Finch swiveled the screen around to face Reese.  “Agent McGee spent most of his allotted ‘rest time’ making withdrawals at the local banks. He drove to six separate branches in New York and withdrew some sizeable amounts.”

                Reese frowned.  “How sizeable?”

                “Just shy of setting off any federal protocols. “ Finch answered.  “If more than a certain amount is withdrawn at once, the bank and law enforcement are alerted to the oddity—a precaution brought on by identity theft.  His six separate withdrawals means no one is aware that he’s walking around with tens of thousands in cash.”

                “A ransom.”

                “If so, it is a curiously exact one.”  Reese pointed at the bottom of the screen. “Agent McGee’s last transaction withdrew precisely the remaining amount in his account.  Apart from the cash he now has, Agent McGee is now without a penny in the world.”

                “Root knows how much he has and she’s gouging him for every last bit of it.”  Reese’s forehead wrinkled in thought.  “But why?  She doesn’t use money for anything.  If she wanted that she could have just hacked into his account and beggared him that way.”

                “An interesting point, but not the one I was going to mention.”  Finch answered.  “Root is manipulating McGee.  She’s already contacted him with the ransom demands, doubtless the cause of his strange behavior at work.  What we’re seeing now is him carrying out those demands.”

                “Including him planting evidence.”  Reese nodded.  “Clever.”

                Finch nodded.  “It’s all part of her plan.  Get Agent McGee to throw the police off her track, persuade him she’s willing to return Miss Scuito, trick him into a ransom exchange, then kidnap him…”

                “…and use him to force Abby to comply.”  Reese finished.

                “After which she will doubtless kill both of them.”  Finch turned back to the computer.  “The Machine gave us their numbers, after all, so she obviously doesn’t plan to leave them alive.”

                “You seem to have a very good grasp of how she works,” noted Reese, eyeing his employer with interest.

                “It’s not something I’m particularly proud of, Mr. Reese.”  Sighing, Finch leaned back against his chair.  “Especially since it doesn’t get us any closer to finding Miss Sciuto.”

                Reese shook his head.  “We have ears on his phone now.  The next time she calls him, we’ll be ready.”

 

 

* * *

 

                Following McGee was easy.  Easier, in fact, than Reese felt it should have been. True, the man was only a technical specialist, but he was also a government agent with several years in criminal investigation.  He should have been at least a bit more wary of being followed.  But then, Reese supposed, the man was probably half-distracted with thoughts of Abby.

                Still, there was something else Reese was looking out for.  “I’m not seeing anyone else following him.”  He said, scanning either side of the street.  “Either they’re very good, or Root doesn’t feel like she needs to monitor him.”

                _“No need.”_  Finch’s voice answered.  _“Root has shown before she is capable of gaining access to the city’s surveillance cameras.  It would be child’s play for her to follow Agent McGee from one traffic cam to another.”_

                “You can do that too, Finch, and you still needed someone for legwork.”

                _“She already has one.  Agent McGee will carry out all her legwork for her,”_ replied Finch.

                “It’s very odd legwork.”  Reese frowned at the back of McGee’s round head, bobbing through the crowds of New Yorkers.  “A garden supply store, a pharmacy, and a coffeeshop.”

                _“I’m inclined to think the coffeeshop was more about Agent McGee staying awake and less about any legwork Root would be asking from her operative.”_

                Nodding in agreement, Reese cast an appraising eye over the government agent, who had stopped to lean against a lamppost.  “Well, she’d better give her ‘operative’ a rest soon.  It doesn’t look as if his legs will stand much more working.”

                _“Agent Gibbs is already a demanding taskmaster, and the nature of Root’s missions demands that Agent McGee carry them out in his ‘spare’ time.”_ Finch’s frown could practically be heard.  _“Between the two of them, Agent McGee can’t last long.”_

                Reese watched as the technical specialist pushed off from the lamppost and resumed his trudge down the street.  “Makes you wonder why he’s walking everywhere.”

                _“So Root can keep watching him, obviously.”_

                “That makes sense.  I wonder if…”  Reese stopped suddenly.  “Well, there’s a wrinkle.”

                _“Mr. Reese?”_

                Reese watched as McGee pushed through the set of double doors and into the building.  “Found out where he’s going.”  He answered, looking up at the New York CSI forensics lab.  “Just not sure why.”

 

 

* * *

 

                “Excuse me.”  McGee looked up at the voice to meet Detective Mac Taylor’s eyes.  “Something I can help you with, Agent McGee?”

                “Ah… yes.”  McGee came forward, bringing out the syringe from his pocket.  “Agent Gibbs asked me to bring this down here for analysis… we found it in a deserted car.  We think Ab… Miss Scuito might have been carried off in it.”

                “Really?”  Snapping a pair of gloves on, Taylor took the syringe and began to inspect it.  “Any idea what it was used for?”

                McGee shrugged.  “Agent Gibbs thought… some kind of sedative?”

                “Could be… sodium thiopental, a barbicute of some kind, proponol…”  Taylor sighed as he ran a finger along the surface.  “We’ll have to test to be certain.”

                “You have samples to test against?”  Asked McGee.

                “Mmm. They’re in that cabinet.   We have all different sorts of syringes, too, to match this sort of thing against.”  Taylor tapped the needle.  “From the looks of things it’s a rather… unusual piece of glassware… shouldn’t be too hard to trace.”

                “I see.”  McGee turned from his study of the cabinet in question to give Taylor a stiff smile.  “Well, if you could just send the information along to us when you have it ready.”

                “Will do.”  Taylor nodded.  As the agent turned to go, Taylor slapped him comfortingly on the shoulder.  “We’ll get her back, son.”

                McGee managed another smile.  “I’m… I’m sure you will.”  He made for the door, in such an obvious fluster that he practically barreled into the janitor on his way out.  “Sorry,” he muttered, rushing down the stairs.

                The janitor lifted a pair of grey eyes and watched him as he ran off.

 

 

* * *

 

                “ _More planting evidence_.”  Finch’s voice sounded frustrated.  _“That syringe will probably take the police to a wholly different part of town.”_

                “As will those bullets he gave to their ballistics people.”  Reese, no longer in his janitor’s uniform, was once again tailing McGee down the street.  “But something’s odd about this, Finch.  Both of those can be traced to McGee.  The second Taylor gets a hit off of either one of those, he calls Gibbs and Gibbs realizes something’s up.  So either McGee’s planning on intercepting that call, or he’s not planning to be around with that happens.”

                _“You forget, Agent McGee isn’t planning anything at all.  He’s just following Root’s plan.”_   Finch’s frustration adopted just a slightly smug air.  _“Root, in all likelihood, figures that Agent McGee will be in her hands by the time the evidence is traced.”_

“But that still reveals her plan.”  Reese countered, threading his way around a particularly large woman.  McGee’s bobbing head could still be seen above the crowd, but his head was hanging low and his feet seemed to be dragging.  “I don’t quite see what the point of this is, Finch.  Why have Fusco ‘discover’ the one and have McGee directly give these?  It doesn’t…”  A beeping interrupted him.  “Hang on.  McGee’s getting a call.”  Watching as the technical specialist fished his silver phone from his pocket, he tapped a button on his own phone to intercept the call.

                _“McGee.”_   Gibb’s curt voice rang in the earpiece.  “ _Wake up and get down here.  We have some new data.”_

                “Right.”  McGee answered, clicking off the phone.  Immediately he stepped to the curb and started to hail a taxi.

                “Can’t exactly follow him into the NCIS branch office, Finch.”

                _“Well, the ransom exchange is hardly likely to be there.  We have ears on him already, all we need is to hack into the building’s surveillence.”_

                “Sounds good.”  A sharp ringing broke the noise of the street, and Reese watched in interest as the government agent withdrew a black phone.

                Suddenly he blinked.  “Finch.”  He said urgently.  “We have a problem.  McGee just answered his phone.”

                _“What?  But our tap is still active.”_

                “He’s got a second one.  It’s black.”  He watched as McGee threw the phone into a wastebin.  “A disposable, from the look of things.”

                “ _Disposable.”_   Finch’s voice hissed suddenly.  _“Of course.  Just like with Raburn.”_

Reese nodded grimly as a taxi finally pulled alongside the curb and McGee entered it.  “She knows we’re watching, Finch, and she wants to make sure we can’t hear.”

 

 

* * *

 

                “Ah, there you are.”  Gibbs turned as McGee stumbled in through the doors.  His eyes narrowed as he took in the other agent’s disheveled appearance and reddened eyes.  “Didn’t you get any sleep?”

                McGee shook his head.  “I couldn’t, boss.”

                Frowning, Gibbs turned back to Ziva.  “So, no enemies?”

                “No, our man HAS enemies.  Just very few who are willing to talk about it.”  Ziva winced.  “This IS the intelligence service, after all.  Most of his enemies are on the wrong side and don’t want to talk to us anyway.  And none of them would have any interest in Abby whatsoever.”

                “So dead end.”  Gibbs frowned.  “DiNozzio!”

                The other agent looked up from his desk.  “Right boss.  There weren’t police reports on all the incidents, but I managed to turn up about five or six.”

                “And?”

                “And, theory continues to hold weight.”  DiNozzio flipped open the folder in his hands to show a host of pictures.  “Most of these people found themselves suddenly and unexpectedly in danger, and then just as unexpectedly, this guy shows up to help.  Naturally, they don’t question why, and when things are all over, refuse to say anything to the police about him.”

                Ziva gave a little nod of understanding.  “Not exactly easy to mouse out the man who saved your life.”

                “’Rat’ out, Ziva.”  Gibbs corrected absentmindedly.  “So.  No wonder information on this guy is so thin.  Only people who see him aren’t in a mood to cooperate.  Any idea what he wants with these particular people?”

                Tony winced.  “Ah… still working on that, boss.  Some of them are like rich brokers and stuff, so that’s easy to guess, and this girl… okay, she was homeless, but she was also the heiress to a fortune. And it’s not hard to think of why he might want someone like Elias in his debt.  But others…”  He shook his head.  “These two girls had nothing he’d want, this guy was an ordinary suburbanite, and this kid here…”  Sighing, Tony let the folder drop.  “It’s just not so easy all the time, to see why they do this con thing.”

                “What else?” asked Gibbs, looking through the photos.

                “Sir?”

                Gibbs did not roll his eyes, but the withering look he sent Tony came close.  “There’s something else, DiNozzio, spit it out.”

                “Well, it’s just…”  Tony bit his lip.  “…these things don’t feel contrived.  Elias was nearly gunned down by a rival mob.  Well… how do you engineer that?  Then the homeless girl… she was targeted by the same folks who killed her parents.  Nothing sudden about that.  The suburbanite ran afoul of some old friends of his. And so on.  The danger’s sudden, but it’s not mysterious.”

                “Of course it is not.” Ziva DID roll her eyes.  “All any of these situations require is to place information in the hands of the wrong people.  A very old intelligence trick.  Tip off the man’s enemies to create a danger, save him from the danger, and gain his loyalty.”

                Tony frowned.  “Still, that would mean these guys have better intelligence than the Russian mob.”

                “Focus on Abby.”  Gibbs warned them.  “If we assume these guys are following the same MO, they would simply tip off someone interested in kidnapping Abby, then intervene once the attempt was made.”

                “Raburn.”  Tony nodded.  “Except whoever they tipped off was more determined than they thought, and kidnapped Abby back.”

                “So… back to Raburn, then?”  Ziva concluded.

                “Close,” answered Gibbs.  “Raburn is the more direct route to whoever’s holding Abby, but if we find this ‘John’ character, we can get that info from him too.  McGee!”

                “Back to compiling surveillance and tracing the… the…” McGee screwed up his eyes in thought.

                “Cell phone tower disruption.  Yes.”  Gibbs turned on the others.  “DiNozzio, you work the Raburn side, Ziva, you’ve got John.”

                “Thank you,” there was an almost predatory gleam in the MOSSAD agent’s eyes.

                The phone on Gibbs desk rang, and he snatched it up.  “Special Agent Gibbs, NCIS.”  He listened a  moment.  “I’ll be right over.”

                “Something up, boss?” asked Tony, as the phone clicked back into its receiver.

                “Donnelley wants to see me.  Says he’s got a new suspect in for questioning.”  Gibbs answered, shrugging into his jacket.  “Call me the second you have anything.”

                As the elevator doors closed, McGee looked around at the other two.  “I… think I might make a quick coffee run.  Either of you guys want anything?”

                Tony waved his own mug in the air.  “Already went, probie.”

                “Right.”  McGee hesitated.  “Well… it’s been good… I mean I…”

                Tony and Ziva turned to look at him.

                McGee swallowed.  “Goodbye.”  He said, and walked quickly off toward the doors.

                There was a short silence as the doors closed behind him.

                “That was odd.”  Tony mused.

                “Yes.”  Ziva agreed.

                “I mean, usually he says ‘See you later’ or something like that.”

                “He’s under a lot of stress,” considered Ziva.  “And it looks like he’s very tired.”

                “True.”  Tony turned back to his work.

                There was a slightly longer silence as the two of them worked away, checking different files on their computer, flipping through papers on the desk.

                Ziva looked up to ask Tony a question, and something caught her eye.  “Is that…”  She stood up to get a better look.  “Did he just leave his wallet here?”

                Tony glanced over and sighed.  “He just left his wallet here.” 

 

* * *

 

 

                Reese pushed off the wall as McGee exited through the swinging glass doors. “I’m on him, Finch.”

                “ _Stay close, Mr. Reese.”_  Finch’s voice warned.  “ _Root must be planning to make her move soon.”_

                “I have done this a few times before, actually,” answered Reese, just a touch of annoyance in his tone.  “I think I can manage it.”  He followed McGee to the crosswalk, waiting for the signal. 

                The light turned, but Reese let McGee get a few steps ahead of him before following him across the street.  On the other side, however, the federal agent continued straight past the bustling coffeeshop and into the parking structure next door.

                Reese hurriedly tapped his phone.  “Finch.  Looks like our target’s making an extended coffee break.  Does he have a car here?”

                “A rental SUV.”  Finch confirmed, the clicking of keys audible through the connection.  “It’s parked on the second floor.  He used it to make all his bank stops.  In all probability, the money’s still inside.”

                “Then the ransom’s definitely happening right now.”  Reese broke into a light jog as he ran after the target.  “Finch, we have to warn him.”

                “You’re still a fugitive, and Root doubtless has her own means of listening in!  Approaching him will only tip our hand!”  Finch objected.

                “Root knows we’re following him anyway,” answered Reese, running up the stairs.  “Might as well give her something to follow.”

                There was a moment of silence.  “I’ll try and see if I can shut off the cameras.”

                “Appreciate it.”  Reese ran out onto the second level and scanned the parking lot.  McGee’s pale form could be seen, walking toward the far left side of the structure toward a dark SUV.

                Reese started toward him.  “I’ve got the target in sight. Moving in…”

                “Stop,” ordered a new voice from the stairwell.  Reese groaned and turned as Ziva emerged through the door, gun pointed.  “Not another step.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

                “Agent DiNozzio, right?”  Tony looked up as Detective Taylor came in through the doors.

                “That’s my name.”  Tony nodded, standing and shaking the man’s hand with a grin.  “Something I can do for you, Detective Taylor?”

                The square-jawed man shrugged.  “I was headed to this side of town and thought I’d drop off the results from that evidence you sent our way.”  He glanced around the office.  “Is your boss here?”

                “Out interrogating a witness.”  Tony’s brow wrinkled in thought.  “What… evidence did we send your way again?”

                “A shell casing and a discarded syringe.  Agent McGee brought them by.”  Taylor frowned as he handed over a sheaf of papers.  “Where is Agent McGee?  Or that other agent of yours, Miss…”

                “David.”  Tony supplied, flipping through the papers.  “Went out on a coffee run.  Well, actually, McGee went out on the coffee run, but he forgot his wallet so Ziva ran out to give it back to him.”

                “Coffee, huh?”  Taylor gave a little chuckle.  “Guy sure looked like he could use it.”

                “You’re telling me,” nodded Tony ruefully in answer.  “Gibbs told him to get some sleep but I doubt he so much as closed an eyelid.”

                Taylor shook his head.  “He definitely seems very involved in the case.  Is he alright, do you think?”

                Frowning, Tony considered this a second.  “He… definitely has been acting a little off on this case.  Not as sharp as he usually is.  I mean, most cases, he would shrug off an all-nighter like this.  But then…”  He gave an understanding tilt of the head.  “This case is a bit more stressful than others.  For all of us.”

                “Still, you say he’s been worse than the rest of you.” 

                Tony shrugged.  “McGee… ah, McGee hasn’t been himself for a couple months.  I don’t think he’s quite over the breakup, to be honest.  I mean, he’s shy… keeps his thoughts to himself, for the most part… but he was still pretty torn up about it.  Would do almost anything.  And then THIS happens…” 

                “Enough to drive anyone crazy.”  Taylor nodded. 

 

 

* * *

 

                John Reese, arms out by his sides, hands raised nonthreateningly, tried a placating smile.  “Look, this is a really bad time…”

                “Don’t move.”  Ziva answered, her gun steady.  “Gibbs wants you alive, but you do not need kneecaps to talk.”

                “ _Mr. Reese, what’s going on?”_   Reese winced at the blaring in his ear.

                “Why are you following McGee now?”  Ziva asked, stepping a little nearer.  “Are you picking our team off one by one?  Is that your game?”

                “If it was, I would have killed you in the apartment.”  Reese answered, watching the gun barrel.

                Ziva snorted.  “A decision which you are doubtless regretting at the moment.”

                “I’m… seeing the downside,” admitted Reese.

                Ziva’s eyes narrowed.  “Who are you working for?  Where is Abby?  And what do you want with McGee?”

                “I’m following Agent McGee for the same reason I followed Abby.”  John’s voice was calm, even.  Ziva recognized the tone—operatives used it to establish empathy with a subject, or an enemy.  “To protect him.  Look, Agent David, you’re not going to believe me, but your teammate is in danger, and I need…”

                Ziva interrupted him.  “My teammate WAS in danger.  Because you were following him.  Now, though, he is safe.  And, once Gibbs gets a hold of you, you WILL tell us where Abby is.”

                “Believe me, officer David, if I could, I would.”

                _“Mr. Reese, he’s getting into the car!  He’s going to get away!  Mr. Reese, this is our ONE CHANCE to track Root down!”_

                Reese sighed and closed his eyes.  “Ah, this is going to hurt.”

                At the far end of the parking lot, McGee’s SUV roared into life.  Ziva’s eyes barely flickered, but nevertheless Reese lunged forward…

                Ziva fired twice.  John’s body jerked backwards and fell to the ground.  The MOSSAD operative kept her gun trained on the body, but even as she did her eyes traveled to the SUV at the far end.  “McGee?”  Her eyebrows wrinkled in puzzlement.  “What?”

                The SUV pulled out of the parking spot with a screech of the tires.  Ziva could barely take a step back before the giant black car was speeding past, rounding the corner toward the exit at a dangerously high speed.  But still she’d caught a glimpse of the driver.

 “What…”

A hand shot up from the ground and struck her gun hand, knocking the weapon away.  A leg kicked out at her feet, but she leapt away.  John, clearly fighting just to breathe, slowly lumbered to his feet, clutching his chest.

Ziva hissed.  “

“That… wasn’t… very nice.”  John wheezed.  “Was… expecting… better manners.”

Charging forward, Ziva aimed a blow at the man’s midsection.  He blocked it and stumbled away from her follow-up blow, but couldn’t quite avoid the left hook that she smacked him in the jaw with.  His head flew back, but his legs were still moving, and before Ziva could quite cover the opening her hook had left, a half-hearted kick knocked her off-balance.

Bulletproof vests stopped projectiles, but they did very little to lessen the force of the impact.  By all rights, John should have been stretched out on the ground, alive, but gasping for breath and probably suffering from internal bleeding.  The fact that he could fight at all was impressive… dangerously impressive.

Still, there was no way he could win this fight.  Ziva regained her balance and resumed the attack, sending a flurry of blows at him that he was barely able to deflect, let alone dodge.  Though he still had the advantage of height, Ziva scored hits in the chest, shoulder, and thigh before she finally managed to send her elbow crashing into his face.

John stumbled backwards, nearly falling over but regaining his balance at the last second.  Distantly, Ziva could hear the squealing of tires.  Was that McGee, coming back?  Or just another crazy New Yorker? 

Face changing suddenly, Reese turned and ran toward the entrance ramp.

Ziva did not bother running after him, instead she snatched up her gun and aimed…

Only for a blue car to come screaming out of nowhere and block her shot.  Doors slammed, more gunshots filled the air, and as Ziva dove for cover, John jumped in the car.

Ziva cursed as the blue car drove away.

 

* * *

 

 

                _“I’ve got him, Finch.  But you better hope that federal agent didn’t get a good look at my car, or this is my ass in the fire.”_

                “She shouldn’t have had an angle on your license plate, at that location.”  Finch assured the voice.  “Thank you for your timely intervention, Detective Carter.”

                _“Thanks nothing.  You guys getting mixed up with the feds now?  That’s the last thing you need, with Donnelly on your tail.”_

                “Unfortunately, detective, we do not always pick our clients.  How’s John?”

                “ _I’m fine, Finch_.”  Reese’s voice came on the phone.  “ _Where’s Agent McGee?”_

                “He ditched his phone, but that rental car has a GPS tracker,” answered Finch, turning to another monitor.  “I’m turning it on…”  A street map flickered into life, with a small blinking dot.  “It’s stopped in East Brooklyn, at the corner of Maple and Nanninga.”  Finch blinked as the implications occurred to him.  “Stopped…  You two need to get over there NOW!”

                “ _What the heck is going on_?”  Carter’s angry voice demanded.

                “I’ll explain later, detective!”  Finch’s fingers flew over the keys.  “I’m… going to see if I can get eyes on site… ah, here we are.”

                Live feed from a surveillance camera appeared on the screen, showing the marked SUV parked by the curb in a rather seedy –looking neighborhood.  McGee, marked with a white box, was just getting out, a large bag over his shoulder.

                Finch snatched up the phone.  “You HAVE to hurry!  It looks as though Agent McGee is handing the ransom over now!”

                “ _Ransom?”_   Carter’s frustration was still clear.  “ _If you guys would just ONCE let me in on what you’re doing…”_

                Finch was no longer listening.  Already he’d tapped into other cameras, and the video on the screen switched to show the alleyway.  There was a tall brute of a man leaning up against the wall.  As McGee approached, he pushed himself off it to meet the agent.

                _“Did you bring the money?”_   The audio was slightly garbled, but distinguishable nonetheless.

                For answer, McGee slung the bag off his shoulder and handed it over.  The angle of the camera made it impossible to see his face, but Finch thought his shoulders had an unusually tense set to them.  _“Well?”_

                The other opened the bag and grunted in satisfaction before replying.  “ _It’s done.  The girl’s in Oyster Bay.”_

_“Good.”_

                And McGee shot the man.

                Finch’s eyebrows jumped.  As he watched, McGee bent over to check the man’s pulse, then picked up his ankles and started to drag him away.

                Finch cleared his throat.  “Mr. Reese,” he said carefully.  “I think we may have made a grave error.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews are, of course, appreciated.


	8. The Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Team Machine hunts McGee as the NCIS hunts Reese.

 

                “Looks like our original guess was right.”  Reese, still breathing hard, lay in the back of Carter’s cruiser, watching the video on his phone.  “Agent McGee took the breakup pretty hard and arranged for her to be kidnapped once she was in New York.”

                Carter, at the wheel, snorted.  “Everyone knows bad things happen in New York, right?”

                “Plus he’d be at work in Washington when it happened.  It’s a decent alibi.”

                _“We were too fixated on Root.”_   Finch’s voice expressed his frustration.  “ _In all likelihood, she’s never been involved. Agent McGee would have been initially responsible for tracing the call from NCIS, all he had to do was alert his own agents before alerting the federal ones.  Simple enough for a technician of his caliber.”_

                “Except she doesn’t cave to his attentions,” nodded Reese, finally sitting up.  “So he clears his accounts, throws the case off track, and prepares to leave the country after doing away with Abby and anyone associated with his plan.”

                “Why?”  Carter frowned.  “Why bother covering your tracks if you’re going to split anyway?  The second they realize he’s gone they’ll put two and two together.  And didn’t you say he brought up some of the fake evidence himself?  Something’s wrong, Finch, this is too obvious.”

                _“Perhaps he relapsed.  Perhaps the stress was getting to him and he made mistakes.”_   Finch suggested, frustration still in his tone.  _“Who knows, detective?  It certainly doesn’t change our course—follow Agent McGee and apprehend him before he can discard the body.”_

                “Maybe not.  Carter, pull over here.”  John gestured.

                The police car pulled over to the curb with a squeal of tires.  John leapt out the back while Carter popped out the front.  “What’re you doing now? Stealing another car?”

                “This is mine.”  John answered, running over to a jet-black car parked nearby.  “It has some hardware I might need in the back.  Carter, I want you to go visit the site of that shooting… something about the video doesn’t sit right with me.”

                Carter looked mildly insulted.  “So what, I’m playing clean-up now?”

                “Something like that.”  The door slammed, and the dark car sped away.

 

* * *

 

                “Hey boss.”  Tony said as Gibbs swept into the office.  “You just missed Taylor.”

                “Really?  What was he doing here?”  Gibbs asked, rooting through his desk.

                “Bringing over the data from that stuff you sent down there.”  Tony answered, holding up the relevant files.  “I’m looking it over now, seems pretty promising.”

                Gibbs frowned.  “I never sent anything down there.”  He responded, crossing the space in a few strides and snatching the papers from Tony’s hand.  “Where did he say he got them from?”

                “McGee,” answered Tony, a doubtful look creeping over his face.  “You know, I did wonder, since McGeek was supposed to be on break all morning.”

                “Apparently he did some extra work,” muttered Gibbs, throwing the papers down.  “Where is he?”

                “Went out to get coffee.  Forgot his wallet, though, Ziva ran after…”

                Gibb’s phone cut Tony off with its insistent ring, and the director held up a hand to silence the agent as he flipped the phone open.  “Ziva, if you’re…”  He stopped.  “What?”  Tony looked up as his boss’s voice grew sharp, hard.  “Where’s McGee?”  Gibbs was already digging his gun out of the desk.  Tony, puzzled but reading the signs nonetheless, grabbed his own coat and gun.  “Right, stay there, Tony and I are on the way down.  And keep trying.”

                “Situation, boss?” asked Tony, running after his boss to the elevator.

                Gibbs threw him a look. “Ziva just ran into our mystery man.  Says he was tailing McGee but ran off after she confronted him.”

                “He what?”  Tony followed his boss to the elevator.  “She okay?”

                “She’s fine, but McGee bolted.”  Gibb’s lips were pressed in a thin line.  “And now she can’t reach him.”

* * *

  

 _“Agent McGee has abandoned his phone.”_   Finch’s voice rang crisply over the earpiece.  _“Fortunately, I managed to locate the rental he is using and activate the GPS.  I’m sending the data to you now, but it doesn’t really tell us anything new… he’s headed out to Oyster Bay.”_

                “He’s got a big headstart on me, Finch.”  Reese responded tightly, fingers clenching the wheel.

                _“Not as much as you think. He seems to be sticking to backroads, and it’s slowing him down.  Still…”_   There was a tapping of keys.  “ _New York’s Finest is about to receive an anonymous tip about a car matching that description.”_

                Reese nodded.  “So what’s in the car?  A bomb?”

                _“Nothing quite so dramatic.  A mere five kilos of cocaine ought to be enough to get the attention of the police.”_ Finch sounded a little smug.

                “That’s not going to bring a lot of firepower on him, Finch,” frowned Reese, pulling the car around a breathtaking turn.

                _“Agent McGee only has a pistol.”_   Finch pointed out.  _“I only hope he surrenders without a fight.”_

                “I hope he doesn’t,” answered Reese darkly, and hit the accelerator.

* * *

 

 

                “Found  his cell, boss.”  Tony said, jogging up with the article.  The parking garage was swarming with cops, and Gibbs and Ziva were at the center of them.  “Looks like he threw it out the window as he drove out of the parking lot.”

                “What the hell is that fool thinking?”  Gibbs snatched the phone from Tony.  “Ziva, did you happen to get a look at what kind of car McGee was in?”

                Ziva, leaning against a nearby car, gave a short jerk of her head.  “Dark SUV, probably dark blue.  It had the Chevrolet symbol on the front but I did not see what make.  The license started out Victor-Seven-Charlie.”

                “The rest?”  Gibbs demanded.

                Ziva shook her head in frustration.  “I am sorry.  I was a little… distracted.”

                “Distracted is no damn excuse, Ziva!”  Gibbs half-shouted.  “Do you realize how many dark blue SUV’s there ARE in Manhattan?  You didn’t get his plate, you didn’t get the other car’s plate, you didn’t get the man, is there anything you DID get?”

                Ziva just bowed her head.  “The other car was a police cruiser of some kind… a plainclothes car, like a detective drives.”

                “But you didn’t see who was driving it.”  At Ziva’s negative shake, Gibbs turned away and stamped his foot.

                Tony sent Ziva what he hoped was a conciliatory look, but she didn’t even notice.  As furious as Gibbs was, Ziva looked almost worse.  Hell, Tony was feeling pretty frustrated himself right now.  Another one of their teammates had disappeared from under their very noses, and they still had no idea why.

                “Okay.”  Gibbs flipped open his phone.  “DiNozzio, get every scrap of surveillance that you can from this place and the surrounding buildings.  If someone was using their phone to snap a photo, I want it.  Ziva, get on the phone and get Taylor’s boys to come down here and analyze the hell out of this place.”

                “Boss, what about you?”  Tony called to Gibbs’ retreating back.

                “I’m going to have the police pull over every dark blue SUV within twenty miles!”  Gibbs shouted back.  “And get the records on where every one of their police cruisers was ten minutes ago!” 

 

* * *

 

 

                “You realize I have a job, right?”  Carter snapped as she emerged from the car.  “What am I supposed to tell my chief if he comes calling to ask what I’m doing down here?”

                _“Say you’re following up a tip about the missing federal agent.”_   Finch suggested.

                “Right.  Then he’s gonna ask why I didn’t tell headquarters before.”

                “Say you didn’t want them on a wild goose chase.  You’re an intelligent woman, detective, I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

                “Whatever.  I’m just saying.  If I get a call about an actual crime?  I’m outta here.”  Carter turned off her phone and glanced around the deserted alley.  There was no one around… not particularly unusual for this time of day, or this neighborhood.  Not even the shots would have attracted much attention, and according to the video, McGee had been using a silencer.

                Still… Carter frowned.  The site was too open.  Exposed.  You could see the murder scene from nearly ten different angles.  Would a federal agent, fully familiar with the prevalence of video surveillance, commit a murder in such an open spot, in full view of a very obvious security camera?

                Perhaps someone in one of the adjoining buildings had noticed something.  They LOOKED abandoned, but with the unemployment rate where it was there was bound to be at least one homeless person per structure.  That one, directly across from the alleyway, looked like it had been broken into.  Carter jogged across the street and gave a few sharp raps on the door.  “NYPD, open up!”

                There was no answer.  Carter hadn’t actually been expecting one—anyone inside wouldn’t want to admit it—but it was standard procedure.  Not, of course, that there was anything standard about this entire situation. 

Carter pushed the door open, flicking on her flashlight to gaze into the dark interior.  It seemed she’d entered into a stairwell.  The ground-level door looked pretty firmly latched, but the dust on the stairs themselves had been disturbed. 

Somewhere around the fourth floor, Carter finally found a door that’d been forced open.  By now, she had her gun out.  Bums didn’t enjoy stairs anymore than the next person.  Whoever had broken in here hadn’t just been looking for a place to sleep.

Cautiously, she nosed the door open with her pistol and entered the room. A cracked-open window on her left filled the room with light, laying bare how absolutely empty the place was.  There was a heap of refuse in the far left corner, a rat or two that skittered away from her, and a few boards piled next to the window, but aside from that there was nothing.

However, the window caught Carter’s eye.  It looked as though it had been very recently opened.  There were some ripped cobwebs hanging from the fringe, and—now that she looked at it—signs that the boards had actually been pulled free from it.  Stepping over, she looked out the window.  It looked like a clear shot to the crime scene alley.  Her fingers found the wooden frame of the window.  There, about a few inches apart, were some sharp indentations in the wood—recent indentations.

Carter took out her phone and dialed a number.  “Finch.”  She said.  “We got a problem.  There was a sniper watching your murderer.”

“A sniper?”  Finch’s voice rose an octave or two.

“No idea what sort of gun, but he was using a bipod to hold it steady, so probably a decent one.”  Carter studied the indentations again.  “Didn’t you say your boy used a pistol?”

“Yes.  There was no indication of sniper activity at all.”  There was a slight pause, and then Finch asked:  “Why shoot a man yourself if there is a sniper nearby perfectly willing to do it for you?”

                “Maybe the sniper wasn’t aiming at the victim,” answered Carter.

 

* * *

 

 

“Cops are coming up dry.”  Gibbs strode into the office.  “Give me some good news.”

                Not even glancing up from his desk, Tony shook his head.  “It’s not going to come from me.  Every camera in that parking lot goes dark before Ziva even shows up.  I’ve got McGee entering the garage, then the CIA creep after him, then… nothing.  Cuts to black.”

                Gibbs bit off a curse.  “Ziva?”

                “Taylor and his men examined the structure, but it will be some time before they can offer any results.  They did manage to lift some tire markings from the pavement, but again, it will take time to match it to a particular brand of tire.”  Ziva answered, her mouth a thin line.

                “Hang on, hang on.”  Tony held up a hand to forestall Gibb’s outburst.  “We did get one thing.  Their tech guy was running through the surveillance with me, and he managed to enhance the image of McGee’s car.  Still didn’t get the license plate, but we did manage to pick up the rental agency.  I called them, they’re going through their records now.”

                “Going through?”  Gibbs echoed in disbelief. 

                Tony winced, as if already aware of how his news would be received.  “Yes, it ah… seems they got hit with a virus this morning.  Wiped all their computer records.  Fortunately they keep stuff on paper, but…”

                “…but if it takes time, what are you doing here and not down there?”  Gibbs pointed to the door.  “DRIVE down to that rental agency and MAKE them go through those records faster, damnit!”

                Tony’s phone chose that exact moment to ring.  Holding up his hand and offering a quick smile, Tony crossed his fingers and answered it.  “You’d better have something.”  He waited a moment before whipping out a pen and jotting down a number on the paper.  “Right.  Victor-Seven-Charlie-Nine-Two-Fox.”  He glanced up at Gibbs, who was already dialing on his own phone.  “Thanks a million, gorgeous.  Would you happen to have a tracker on that particular vehicle?”  He winced at the answer.  “The virus, of course.  Thanks anyway.”  He hung the phone up.  “Boss…”

                Gibbs stopped him with a look.  “What?”  He barked into the phone.  “How?”   He listened a moment.  “Well, add ‘involved in a federal investigation’ to that tip.  Call me the second you find anything!”

                “What is it?” asked Ziva as Gibbs hung up.

                “Someone already called in a tip on that car.”  Gibbs muttered.  “Said they saw someone matching McGee’s description loading drugs into the back.”

                “Okay, now that’s just nuts.”  Tony scoffed.  “I’ve known junkies, and McGeek is NOT a junkie.”

                Ziva stood up straight, her eyes wide.  “It is a trick.”  She stated, with absolute certainty.  “Operatives often frame targets to get them pulled over by police.  This is the work of our ex-CIA friend.”

                “Okay, but why would he want the cops to pick up McGee?” asked Tony.

                “Given that this guy seems to be working with some, I think that’s fairly obvious.”  Gibbs answered, already heading for the door.

                Now Tony’s eyes widened.  “Damn.”  He said, standing up.

                “YOU stay here.”  Gibbs pointed at him.  “I’m still waiting on that police cruiser intel from the NYPD.  At the very least, I need to know which cop to look out for.  Ziva, you stay too.  Not like we actually know where they’re going to pick up McGee.”

                “Well then where are you going?”  Tony called after him.

                Gibbs stepped into the elevator.  “To check up on a hunch!”

 

* * *

 

 

                “No, the police have been frustratingly useless so far.”  Finch answered, fingers clicking away at his computer.  “Agent McGee’s clever use of sidestreets is largely to blame, but there is also a bank robbery on the west side that seems to be drawing many of their patrol cars.”

                _“That’s not exactly something our little federal hacker could arrange, not without more accomplices.”_   Reese observed.

                “Just bad luck, it would seem.”  Finch clenched his teeth.  “I could try to delay him by manipulating the traffic grid, but I’m not sure that would work for very long.”

                _“I suppose I should be impressed that you’ve already hacked the New York transportation system.”_

                “No, actually, that was disturbingly easy,” frowned Finch in answer.  “Though I suppose terrorists aren’t likely to use computers just to make traffic jams.  In this particular case, Agent McGee isn’t using a lot of stoplights, most of his roads just use stop signs.  He’s obeying the laws, so if I turned a light red he’d probably stay at it for a while, but eventually he’d catch on and then there’d be no stopping him.

_“Don’t suppose there are any drawbridges between here and there?”_

                “This is Oyster Bay, not Staten Island,” snapped Finch in answer, his eyes studying a street map.  “I could try and create some sort of gridlock, but he’s already clear of most traffic patterns.”

 _“Do SOMETHING, Finch_!”  Reese’s voice growled.  “ _There’s a murderer in that car, and he’s getting away!”_

                Something about his associate’s tone made the other man pause.  “Mr. Reese, may I remind you that we are in the business not of avenging deaths, but preventing them.”

 _“Too late for the one.”_   Reese answered darkly.  _“Might as well try for the other.”_

 

* * *

 

 

                Tony looked up as the petite blonde came hurrying into the office.  “This just came in the mail,” she said, holding out a sealed envelope.  “Express delivery for special agent Gibbs.”

                “You just missed him, gorgeous.”  Tony smiled, holding out his hand.  “I’ll take it for him.”

                “Mail?  Now?”  Ziva demanded in disbelief, as the messenger walked out and Tony turned to studying the packet.  “Our teammate is being hunted by an ex-CIA operative and the New York City Police force, our superior just left, and you are getting the mail?”

                “What else am I supposed to do?”  shrugged Tony, squinting at the return address.  “Still haven’t gotten that cruiser data.”

                With a huff of frustration, Ziva looked away.  “I don’t see why I had to stay.”  She muttered.

                “Gibbs is a big boy.  He can take care of himself.”  Tony answered.

                “Not when there is a trained killer slowly picking off members of our team, he can not!” exploded Ziva.  “Abby has been missing for nearly three and a half days, McGee has just disappeared, and Gibbs casually walks out the door ALONE as if there were not an imminent threat to his life!”

                A shrug expressed Tony’s lack of concern.  “Eh, threats and Gibbs have never gotten on very well together.”

                “Or life, apparently.”  Ziva turned as Tony ripped open the folder.  “You’re not seriously reading Gibbs’ private mail, are you?”

                “Ordinarily I wouldn’t dream of it,” answered Tony, already scanning the letter inside.  “But you tell me, does this look like McGeek’s handwriting?”

 

* * *

 

  

                The pier was deserted and in bad repair.  Back in the day, there had probably been a barrier to keep cars from driving straight out onto the pier, but it had long since rusted and fallen away, and the dark blue SUV easily drove onto the long concrete dock.  About halfway, it pulled to a stop.

                Timothy McGee got out of the front, mopping his brow and looking curiously pale.

 

* * *

 

 

                “Yeah, I got something, but you ain’t gonna like it,” answered Carter, squatting on the pavement of the alley, cell-phone to her ear.  

 

* * *

 

 

                After resting against the side of the car for a moment, McGee walked around to the back and opened up the tailgate.  From the back, he pulled out a long, dark bundle, tightly wrapped and curiously heavy.  He had to half-drag it out of the car, and when he finally pulled it free it simply thudded to the pavement.  Drawing out a small anchor from the back, he tied it to one end of the sack and began to pull both toward the water.

 

* * *

 

 

                “Gibbs.”  Tony read from the letter.  “Hopefully you can read this, I haven’t hand-written a letter in ages, but I don’t really have much choice.  It’s my only way to explain to you what I’ve done.”

 

* * *

 

 

                McGee pushed the anchor off the edge and watched as it pulled the shapeless bag after it, deep into the murky depths of the muddy water.  Heaving a sigh, he wiped his forehead again and turned back to the car.

 

* * *

 

 

Picking something up off the ground, Carter held it between her thumb and forefinger, examining it.  “You said your guy was a shooter?”

                _“Yes.  Fired twice at the victim.  You can’t tell me that wasn’t fatal, I saw him fall.”_

                “More like get knocked down.  I found two plastic bullets at the crime scene,” answered Carter, standing back up.

                There was a momentary baffled silence.  Then: _“PLASTIC bullets?”_

* * *

 

 

                Again he went around to the back  There were half-a-dozen backpacks stacked in the back of the SUV.  One by one, he pulled them out, stacking them by the left rear wheel of the SUV.

 

* * *

 

                _“Of course.”_   Reese’s voice cut into the conversation.  “ _That’s what was bothering me.  The man DIDN’T fall.  Ordinarily, the bullets just go through you, and  you collapse, not get knocked back and over like that guy was.”_

                “Plastic bullets rebound off a target, pushing him to the ground.  Riot police have started using them instead of rubber bullets.  Same effect, but not as dangerous.  Less likely to cause internal trauma, and less likely to cause death.”  Carter held the item up to the light.  “There’s more.  I found a syringe cap, like what some of those forensic boys use.  From what I can tell, after he knocked the other guy down, your shooter pumped him full of something.”

                _“I see…”_   Finch’s voice indicated dawning comprehension.  _“He bent down over the man after shooting him—to check his pulse, I thought.  He must’ve drugged him, then dragged him off.”_

* * *

 

 

                As he pulled the bags out, McGee bumped against the blanket-covered lump also stowed in the back.  It shifted a little and gave a frustrated groan.

                “Oh, be quiet.”  McGee muttered.  “You’re lucky to be alive and not swimming with the fishes.”

 

* * *

 

 

                _“It was all a show.  It was made to look like a murder.”_   Reese concluded.

                “Yeah… a show for whoever was camping out in the building,” answered Carter, looking up at the window across from the alleyway.  “They didn’t have that gun on the victim, they had it on your boy.  Guy probably knew if he didn’t make it look real, there’d be two bodies in that alleyway.”

 _“Which would mean Agent McGee is acting under duress,”_   noted Finch.

                “That’s stating it lightly.”  Carter agreed.

 

* * *

 

 

                “It was just after the hotel raid when she contacted me.”  Tony read.  Ziva was next to him now, reading over his shoulder.  “She had Abby, and she knew everything.  My accounts, my history… what I had for breakfast that morning.  She said my phone would let her listen in on everything I said, and that if I tried to get rid of it, she’d kill Abby.  Cameras too… there are cameras everywhere in New York City.  I had to write this in the bathroom, just to make sure she couldn’t read it.”

 

* * *

 

 

                McGee piled the last of the bags near the wheel, closed the tailgate, and waited.  For a while he tried to rest against the car, or sit down on the concrete, but it did no good.  He kept standing up, walking back and foth, bouncing on the balls of his feet, and shading his eyes to stare off at the road in the distance.

 

* * *

 

 

                “For whatever reason, someone WANTED your boy to commit that murder, and commit it in full view of the camera.”  Carter finished. “The sniper would have finished him off if he hadn’t.”

Reese grunted.  “ _They have another hold on Agent McGee.  I don’t think the sniper was there for him.”_

 _“Then who?”_   There was a slight pause while Finch made the logical connection.  _“Oh.  Oh my.”_

                Carter cocked her head in confusion.  “What now?”

 _“Thank you, Detective Carter, you’ve been incalculably helpful_.”  And the phone in her hand clicked off.

 

* * *

 

 

                Heaving a sigh, McGee turned to face the sea.  He closed his eyes and breathed in the air through his nose.

 

* * *

 

 

                “The exchange is supposed to take place later today.”  Tony read.  “I’ve arranged to have this letter delivered shortly afterwards.   I’m not sure where it’ll be.  I’m supposed to meet up with somebody who’ll tell me, then shoot him.  But she said to dump his body, so I’m guessing the final meeting place’ll be at the water.”

                Ziva was already snatching up her phone, dialing a number…

                “Hopefully Abby will tell you some of this herself once she gets back.  I’m not going to kill the man—he’ll be stowed in the back of my rental at the drop-off… wherever that is.  He should be pretty willing to talk once you tell him his boss wanted me to kill him.  Maybe you can use that to find me.  If not, well… tell Abby I love her.”

                Tony looked up at Ziva, who shook her head.  “Now HE’S not picking up.”  She hissed.

 

* * *

 

               

                McGee turned as the two SUV’s ground to a halt.  “Okay.”  He spread his arms apart, raising his palms. “Here we go.”

                Two men got out of the right-hand SUV and one more out of the left.  All were big.  All were tall.  All were carrying more weaponry than  was strictly legal for the greater New York area.

                “I’ve done everything you asked!” shouted McGee.  He held his hands up for emphasis.  “I’m unarmed, and the money’s in the bag.”  A soft kick to the sack punctuated the words.  “And I just got rid of the body, so… please.”  He licked his lips.  “Let her go.”

                The man in the center spoke.  “Kick the bag over here.”

                McGee gave the knapsack a hefty push, sending it scooting over to the man.  With a nod, the right-hand man bent over and unzipped the sack.  He picked out the bills and held it to his boss for examination.  After a moment’s examination, the boss handed it back.  “Looks good.”  He nodded.

                “So… now you let her go.”  McGee replied.  “Right?”

                The boss seemed to think it over for a minute before shrugging.  He nodded to the left-hand man, who opened the door of the SUV.

                But she was still alive.

                The man ripped the tape off of her mouth and she coughed.  “M-m-McGee?”  She coughed again, weakly.  “Wh-what are you…”

                “Abby…”  McGee took an involuntary step forward.

 But the boss raised his weapon.  “Nuh-uh, lover boy.  You remember the deal.  She walks, you don’t.”

Abby struggled in the man’s grasp.  “Wait!  Tim, what are they saying?”

“Nothing, Abs.  Nothing to worry about.”  McGee kept his hands raised.  “Listen…”  He said to the guards.  “Listen, I… I’ll go along, but please I… just let me talk to her.  Just once.”

The leader shook his head.  “That’s not in the instructions.”

                “Please.”

“No dice.”  The man pointed his weapon at Abby.  “Walk to the end of the pier and turn around.”

McGee looked around, licked his lips, and finally nodded.  “Okay.”  He said, backing up until he felt the rough railing bump against his spine.  “Okay.”  He said.  “I’m at the end.”

                The boss gestured.  “Turn around.”

                McGee licked his lips again.  “I… I don’t think…”

                “TURN AROUND.”  The man cocked his pistol.

                “Okay!  Okay!”  McGee held up his hands.  “I’m turning.”  And turning, McGee saw the barrel of a pistol.

                “Hello, Timmy.”  A slim brunette woman smiled at him playfully.  She was standing in a tiny speedboat pressed up against the pier, and she bobbed up and down with the waves. 

                McGee just stared.

                “Mmm, you’re cute.”  Root smiled again.  She gestured with the pistol.  “C’mon, get in the boat.  We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

                “MCGEE!”  He heard Abby scream.

 

* * *

 

 

                “MCGEE!”  Abby screamed as she saw the man climb over the railing.  Where was he going?  What was he doing?  What was all going on here? 

                There was the roar of an electric motor, and a speedboat sped away from the dock, with a terrified McGee in the front seat next to a strange woman.

                “…and eight… nine… ten.”  The bald man noted on his watch.  “Okay.  Enough space.”  He nodded to the other two.  “Get her over by the railing.”

                “Wait!  What?  No!”  Abby pulled away, trying to jerk herself loose as the two men dragged her to the end of the pier.  “What’s going on here?”

                “Not too bright for a scientist,” mused the bald guy, picking McGee’s gun up off the pavement.  “Pretty simple, really.  Your boyfriend just traded his freedom for yours.  He just sorta… forgot who exactly he was trading with.”

                Abby felt her stomach grow cold.  “What do you mean?”

                “The thing is, the boss just grabbed you to get to genius-boy.  Now that we’ve got him…”  The man shrugged as he screwed a silencer over McGee’s gun.  “I mean, technically we could hang onto you to make sure the kid stays in line, but the boss seems to think we’ve got enough video to convince him we have you even if you’re not around.  And once the Feds find your body, the whole manhunt will be over.  Tragic story of the forensics gal who got shot by her grief-stricken boyfriend.”  The man inspected the end of the gun.  “Rather sad, really.”  He aimed.

                BANG!  BANG! BANG!

                Slowly, Abby opened her eyes, only to watch all three of her captors slump to the ground.

 

 

* * *

 

                Reese slowly lifted his head as he heard the click and felt the metal against the back of his head. 

“You’re pretty good with that thing.”  Gibbs commented.

                “Coming from you, I’ll take that as a compliment, Agent Gibbs,” answered Reese, hands still around the sniper rifle in his arms.

                “You’re welcome,” nodded the other.  “Now slowly, let go of the gun and stand up.  Then turn and face me.”

                John did so.  He had a small smile on his face.  “What brings you out here?”

                “A hunch,” answered Gibbs.  There was no smile on his face.  “Now start talking.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, really? I think I got one comment from last week's cliffhanger. You all are an impassive bunch of readers. Regardless, hope this explanation makes sense.


	9. On the Case

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abby is safe, but now McGee is the one in need of rescuing. Gibbs strikes a deal with the mysterious Harold to find out where McGee's kidnapper, Root, might have taken him.

 

 

                The car came screeching to a stop in the parking lot, and Tony and Ziva leapt out.  “Boss, you okay?”  called Tony, sprinting over to the older man. 

                “I’m fine.”  Gibbs answered.  “And, more importantly…” he nodded off to the side, “…so is Abby.”

                There, hunched in the grass, shivering, Gibb’s coat draped about her, was Abby Scuito.

                Ziva let out a little cry and dropped to her knees to fold the other girl in a hug.  “You’re alright!”  She breathed.  “Oh, Abby.”

                “Abs… I…  Oh, it’s good to see you.”  Tony gave a light laugh.  “Abs, I…”

 Around then, he caught sight of the other man in the grass.

“Boss?”  He said carefully.  “What’s the mysterious homicidal CIA man doing here?”

Ziva glanced over, uttered a fierce ejaculation in Hebrew, and leapt up, drawing her weapon.  “YOU!”

                “Agent David.”  The man gave an amused nod.  He was sitting in the grass, hands cuffed behind his back, a serene look on his face.  “Good to see you again.”

                “Ziva, what are you doing?”  Abby came to life, standing up.  “Tony, what’s wrong?  Why are you guys so mad at John?”

                “John?”  Tony quirked an eyebrow.  “You know this creep?”

                “Know him?”  Abby stamped her foot.  “He saved my life!  Twice now!  It’s very rude of you guys to be pointing guns at him!”

                “You can lower your weapons.”  Gibbs raised his hand.

                Reluctantly, Tony and Ziva holstered their sidearms.  “So, at the risk of repeating myself,” said Tony.  “…what’s the mysterious homicidal CIA vigilante—excuse me, JOHN—doing here?  As opposed to, say, safely back at the precinct in a cozy cell?”

                “Tony..!”

                “Let it go, Abs.”  Gibbs threw her a glance.  “To answer your question, Tony, he’s here because McGee was here.”

                “Yeah… we got the letter.”  Tony handed the scrawled paper over to Gibbs.  “Details his whole plan.  Guy really had his back against the wall, but he did his best.”

                “Root, huh?”  Gibbs glanced over the letter.  “I suppose that explains his strange behavior.”

                “Doesn’t say anything about this place, though.”  Tony frowned.  “How’d you figure this one out, boss?  I mean, near the water, sure, but that could be practically anywhere in New York.  The place is on a freaking island.”

                “That anonymous tip that the police got about McGee said that the deal was taking place in Oyster Bay.”  Gibbs answered, still reading the letter.  “Thought it was worth checking out. Oh, so that’s what the tied-up guy in the back is for.”  He noted, turning to look at the car.  “Very thorough.”

                “He’s here?”  Ziva made an eager move for the car.  “Give me a few minutes, I’ll figure out what this is about.”

                “Chances are pretty good he doesn’t know anything.  Root tends to keep her agents separate and tell them as little as possible,” said Reese suddenly, still speaking from the ground.  “He was probably just hired to meet your friend and deliver the message.  I doubt he knows anything more than that.”

                  “And… again we get the question, why aren’t you in a jail cell?”  Tony frowned.

                A grin quirked the edges of John’s mouth.  “Because I’m no good to you in a jail cell.”

                “Really?  Cause I’m pretty sure that’s where I’d like you to be.”

                “He’s right.”  Gibbs nodded.  “That’s why I called you two over here instead of the police, and why I specifically HAVEN’T reported this entire incident.  Until we find McGee, there’s going to be no official word of John’s capture.  He’s going to help us get him, and after that, well…”  Gibbs shrugged.  “…then we can figure out what to do.”

                “Doesn’t exactly provide much of an incentive to help you.”  John was still grinning.

                “But you will.”  Gibbs stepped closer to John and plucked out the earpiece.  “And not just you.”  Reaching into John’s suitcoat pocket, he pulled out his cellphone.  “We’re going to need a tech-head to capture a hacker.”

                “Well, that’s a problem, because we just lost ours.”  Tony frowned.

                But Gibbs just gave a tiny smirk.  “Oh, I think we can find a new one.  Wouldn’t you say, Harold?”  He said, apparently addressing the phone.

                _“There is no need to be threatening, Agent Gibbs.”_   The voice responded from the phone.  _“I am already tracing Root.”_

 

* * *

 

  

                Finch’s fingers flew over the keys.  “The speedboat was stolen from a marina much further down the river, a marina which unfortunately did not have a security camera.”  He reported.  “However, most of the river cams catch its progress down the river until approximately an hour before the rendezvous, when it disappears into a blindspot.”

 _“Waiting for McGee.”_   The phone on his desk answered.

                “Exactly.”  Finch threw a nervous glance to the left screen, showing four agents in a parking lot around a deceptively calm-looking Mr. Reese.  “She seems to have used a stolen phone to create a wi-fi hotspot on the river, where she monitored progress and coordinated the operation.  The messenger, the sniper, the robbery…”

_“The what?”_

                “The robbery.  About five minutes after McGee left the parking lot, there were reports of a bank robbery in progress at First National.  I’m still getting details as to whether it was a purely electronic attack or if there were accomplices involved, but in either case it succeeded in its object—to keep the police from apprehending Agent McGee.”

                _“Wait.”_   A new voice from the phone cut in.  _“We only knew McGee had even left because you guys butted in.  How could she know the police would be after him?”_

                “Possibly it was a last minute plan put into motion after the plan was discovered, Agent DiNozzio,” answered Finch evasively.  “Regardless, she coordinated affairs from the speedboat until she saw McGee dump the ‘body,’ then signaled her allies in the SUV.”

                _“Where is she now?”_

                “Harbor Patrol picked up the boat five minutes ago,” answered Finch.  “No one was inside, unfortunately.  It seems likely that Root coerced Agent McGee into leaving the boat early, most likely to another boat.”

 _“Harold, what does she want with McGee?”_   Abby’s anguished voice cut in.  _“What is all this about?”_

                Finch’s eyes flickered to an open document on the right-hand screen.  “Surely that is unimportant, Miss Scuito.  Regardless of what she intends, we must find and rescue him.”

                _“So.”_   Gibbs voice was back.  _“How are you coming with the finding part?”_

                “Tracking the speedboat’s progress now…” Finch frowned.  “Oh dear.”

_“What?”_

                “Agent McGee and the woman disappear in a camera blind spot underneath a bridge.  However, no other boats emerge.”

                _“So what, they’re still there?”_   asked DiNozzio.

                “It seems unlikely.”  Finch shook his head.  “She’s far more devious than that.”

                _“Regardless, that’s where we’ll start_.”  On the surveillance video, Gibbs turned to face the others. _“Tony.  You take Abby and get her to the hospital.  Ziva, grab ‘John’ and throw him in the car.”_

                _“If it’s all the same to you…”_   Reese’s voice interrupted, _“…perhaps it would be better if we took my car.”_

                DiNozzio snorted.  _“Why, you got some trick handcuff key hidden in the seat cushion?”_

 _“Just open the trunk.”_   Reese smiled.

                They did.  And stared.  Gibbs turned to look at Reese.  _“What were you planning on doing, fighting a gang war?”_

                Reese shrugged.  _“It wouldn’t be the first time.”_

 _“It… might be helpful to have a tear gas launcher at our disposal.”_   Ziva noted hopefully.

_“Fine.  We’ll take his car.  Tony, we’ll touch base with you once we know more.”_

 

* * *

 

 

                “What I don’t understand,” said Ziva, throwing a glare into the back seat of the car, “Is how you knew Abby and McGee were in danger to begin with.”

                Reese, still handcuffed, shrugged.  “Do you make a habit of giving up your secrets, Ms. David?”

                Grinding her teeth, Ziva turned back to the front. “I still say this is a racket.”  She hissed.  “They set up the dangers and then ‘rescue’ people from them.”

                “Wasn’t anyone else in the parking lot where you attacked him.”  Gibbs answered, eyes on the road.  “And also they’d have no reason to involve the police with that tip if that was their plan.  Plus there’s the fact that he shot three of the men in cold blood.”

                “True,” admitted Ziva reluctantly.

                “You know, most people would be bothered, not reassured, by that.”  Reese spoke up from the back seat.  “Particularly cops.”

                “Let’s say we’re under a lot of stress.”  Gibbs answered

                “A teammate of ours was in danger.  IS in danger.”  Ziva frowned.  “It makes us more… understanding of harsher methods.”  Sighing, she leaned back.  “I, personally, have always had difficulty with certain limits of law enforcement.”

                “Gotta admit, I’m curious, though.”  Gibbs’ eyes flickered up to the rear view mirror to look at the man.    “You always go for the kneecaps.  Why the headshots this time?”

                “Hostage situation.”  Reese answered.  “I was too far away to effectively control them. Kneecapping them would have put them on the ground, but any one of them could still have shot Abby.  And might have, simply out of spite.”

                Gibbs inclined his head.  “Makes sense.”

                “So… what exactly do you intend to do with me?” asked Reese.  “I mean, you can’t watch me and take out whatever goons Root has at the same time.”

                “How did you know about Root, anyway?”

                “Again, secrets.”  Reese smirked.

                “How did YOU know about this Harold person?”  Ziva asked, throwing her boss a questioning glance.  “I thought we were still working on the associate.”

                “We were.”  Gibbs nodded.  “Didn’t know much more than the name.  Squirrelly fellow.  Wears glasses, walks with a limp.”

                “ _You realize I am right here_.”  The phone propped up on the dash responded.

                “True, but ASKING you for answers about yourself seems about as useful as asking your hired gun here,” answered Gibbs.

                Reese chuckled.  “Less.”

                The phone ignored them both.  “ _The bridge is on your next left.”_   It stated.  “ _The boat was stopped against the far bank.”_

 

* * *

 

 

                Tony’s phone rang and he picked it up.  “Tell me you got something.”

                _“Nope.”_   Gibbs answered, frustration clear in his tone.  “ _No sign the boat was ever here.”_

 _“Looking at the robbery report, it seems the owner also had two diving suits in the forward compartment… suits that are now missing.”_   Harold’s voice broke in.

                “Wow.”  Tony breathed.  “You can just jack into people’s phone conversations like that?  I am never doing phone sex again.  Like ever.”

_“Each diving suit had an oxygen tank attached, giving them maybe two hours of breathing time, meaning…”_

“…meaning they could be anywhere along the riverfront.”

 _“Or in some of the larger watermains.”_   Finch added _.  “I will monitor the airwaves for calls mentioning a pair of scuba divers, but I do not have great hopes.”_

 _“Fine.”_   Gibbs sighed _.  “Tony, how’s Abby?”_

“Um… great.  Just great,” answered Tony, casting a nervous glance over his shoulder.  “The doctors are doing their doctoring thing, they say she’s going to make a full recovery…”

 _“Has she gleaned anything useful from her study of the SUV_?” asked Finch.

 _“Her what?”_   Gibbs demanded.

“Dude!”  Tony hissed, glancing up and seeing the security camera.  “Seriously, do you spy on EVERYONE?”

 _“DiNozzio, what is Abby doing with the SUV?”_   Gibbs sounded dangerous.  _“I thought I told you to take her to the hospital!”_

“I tried, boss, but she latched onto that car and said she wasn’t going anywhere until she knew Tim was safe.  Said the SUV probably had useful forensic evidence for her to try and determine where they’d be keeping him and some such.”  Tony turned to see the bedraggled Goth, prying something out of the tires.  Dr. Mallard was hovering over her, trying to stick bandages on her head.  “I did call Ducky, who got down here with some medical van he grabbed.  He says she’s mostly fine.   C’mon, you know Abby.  She’d go crazy without some sort of work to keep her busy.”

 _“That sounds like her_.”  Both voices admitted.

Tony blinked.  “Day keeps getting weirder.”  He sighed.  “Anyway, to answer your question, Mysterious Voice…”

_“Call me Harold.”_

                “To answer your question, Ghostface, the answer is not immensely.  They’ve got a light coating of concrete dust, which means the cars probably drove through some kind of construction or demolition site.  But, you try to find all the places in New York under construction…”

                _“There are currently seventeen.”_   Finch answered.  _“And nothing to recommend any particular one over another.  I’m tracking the license plates, but unfortunately that is coming up predictably short—they were stolen from a dealership in North Brooklyn.  Mapping different routes from the dealership to the construction sites now…”_

                Tony shook his head.  “Abby says it felt like a short trip.  They had her blindfolded in the car, but she says they couldn’t have been driving for more than an hour.”

                _“Where did they pick her up?”_

                “She said some dark abandoned warehouse with a leaky roof.  Look, she doesn’t remember a lot, and quite honestly I don’t want to pump her for more information right now.  Apparently they were pretty tight with her, barely so much as spoke to her the whole time.”

There was a faint sigh from ‘Harold.’  “ _Right.  I’ll cross-reference all abandoned buildings within an hour’s drive with the different routes, see if anything comes up_.”

                “Tony!”  Abby came bounding over.   “Tony, tony!  Guess what I found in the tire tread!”

                “Please tell me it’s a strange sort of paint only used in one location in New York City.”  Tony said, turning to her with a hopeful expression.

                Abby just looked puzzled.  “Uh, no?”  She held up the item.  “Turns out it’s a chunk of old fiberglass insulation.  They use this stuff everywhere.”

                “Oh,” nodded Tony glumly.  “Right.”

                “But hang on!” insisted Abby.  “See, it’s OLD!  And more to the point…”  She waved about to demonstrate, “…it’s not processed!  This is the kind of fiberglass they used to make years ago, but nobody would have this stuff just sitting around.  Even if it fell out of the ceiling it wouldn’t look like this.  This stuff came from an old plant.”

                _“Now searching for abandoned fiberglass insulation factories.”_   Harold’s voice came from the phone.  “ _Excellent work, Ms. Scuito.”_

 

* * *

 

 

                “Bartlett’s Fiberglass.”  Finch allowed himself a small smile of triumph as the other points on his map disappeared, leaving the solitary blinking mark.  “Went bankrupt in 2003, is now owned by Goliath National Bank, who has yet to find a viable use for the property.”

 _“Yet to find?  In New York City?”_   Agent DiNozzio’s voice scoffed from his phone.  _“I thought land was practically gold in here, seems like someone would have snapped it up by now.”_

                “I realize economics is not your field of study, agent, but surely you must have noticed the country is in a recession?”  Finch adjusted his glasses.   On the screen, documents and graphs were piling up, alongside camera feeds from adjoining roads. Clicking on the feeds, Finch began to rewind the footage. “Furthermore, it’s not downtown, it’s more toward the outskirts—not far from Oyster Bay, in fact.”

 _“Root’s boat headed downtown, though.”_   Reese’s voice was faint over the connection, but still audible.  _“She must have a second location.”_

                “Naturally, but even her staging point might provide some clue to where she is now.”

 _“You planning to give us the actual ADDRESS at any point_?”  Gibbs’ impatient tone snapped.

                 Finch raised his eyebrows and tapped a key.  “Sending it to you now, Agent Gibbs.  But as my associate has observed, Agent Dinozzio is actually closer to it than you are…”

                _“Not happening.  Tony, you and Ducky stick with Abby.  If she wants to take that car back to the lab, go with her.  If she wants extra supplies, call Taylor.”_

_“Got it, boss.”_

_“Ziva and I will stay on task here.”_   There was the faint slam of a car door.  _“Call us the second you find anything.”_

                _“Will do.”_   There was a click as Tony hung up.  Finch muted the audio from his phone—there was no point in making things more confusing.

                For a while there was silence in the library.  Bear looked up and whined, but Finch brushed him off, continuing to scroll through the security footage. 

                _“Why would they kidnap Abby, if they did not intend to use her for anything?”_   Ziva’s musing tone echoed from the computer.

                _“Why would you?”_ came Gibbs’ terse reply.

 _“To get to her associates,”_ answered the ex-Mossad agent, nearly automatically.  _“But that does not seem to make sense here.  The tactic is only used if you cannot kidnap the primary target, in this case McGee.  And given what I know of McGee, it seems as though kidnapping him would be rather easy.”_

 _“You figure out how to kidnap all your friends?”_   That was Reese’s amused lilt, still somewhat faint, but clearer in the enclosed space of the car.

                A snort from Ziva.  “ _You don’t?”_

 _“Kidnapping Abby gives her leverage over him—gets him to do what she wants.”_   Gibbs answered.  _“In this case, get him to frame himself so no one’s looking for a kidnapped Tim McGee—they’re looking for a runaway Tim McGee.  False trail, probably meant to lead to a body floating in the river and a suicide note.”_

                Ziva grunted.  _“Cold, but effective.  No loose ends.”_

 _“Abby said the men mentioned that ‘Root’ thought they had enough footage of her to get McGee to do whatever they wanted,”_ continued Gibbs, his voice taking just a slightly dangerous tone at the memory. 

                _“So there is another layer to the leverage.  They want him to do something for them.”_   Ziva puzzled.  _“But what?  There are not many dark secrets in McGee’s past, at least not compared to the rest of us.  Money they would have had from the ransom.  Perhaps they need him to hack something?”_

 _“No offense to your teammate, but I doubt she’s in his league_.” Again Reese’s faint input from the rear of the car.  _“Root is a world-class hacker who can break into any computer system she chooses.  She’s not likely to need any skills your teammate has to offer.  It’s more likely the systems he has access to.”_

                Finch winced.  Although it was one of many reasons why he’d hired Mr. Reese, at times he really wished the ex-CIA operative was not quite so smart.  Or at least not as willing to share.  Most times he was the model of discretion, where had this sudden chattiness come from?

 _“McGee works for a crime lab.  That’s hardly anything a hacker would be interested in.”_   Ziva objected.

                _“But has he always worked for a crime lab? Or exclusively?  I saw his file, Agent McGee has done contract work for several different major agencies in Washington DC, often dealing with internet security.  Even if he doesn’t have the precise passwords available, he’ll be at least familiar with the different protocols and safeguards in effect.”_

 _“You’ve got files on us.”_   Gibbs noted.  _“That’s interesting.”_

 _“Would McGee really give up that information simply if he believed Abby was in danger?”_   asked Ziva, almost in disbelief.

                Reese’s shrug could almost be heard in his voice _.  “You know him better than I do, you tell me.  I guess it would probably depend on what database they ordered him to access.”_

                There was a short silence. 

                _“What about you, Harold?”_ Gibbs’ voice finally broke in. _“You’ve been awfully quiet.  Why do you think she took him?”_

                “I think,” said Finch carefully, “that we might do better to focus less on the WHY and more on the WHERE.  Unfortunately, the warehouse we’re looking at doesn’t seem to have kept up on its surveillance—I can’t glean anything of use from the footage.  Still, one of the locals might have spotted something.”

 _“Back to the old-fashioned way, then.”_   Gibbs answered.

 

 

* * *

 

                “So you say you’ve met this Harold guy?”  Tony asked.

                “Oh yeah!  Real sweet.  Smart, too.”  Abby paused for a moment to think.  “Really quiet, though.  Not much of a sharer.  Doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s working.”

                “Not many professionals do, my dear,” interjected Ducky, shining a light down the throat of one of the bodies.  “I seem to recall you’ve had your own difficulties with working partners.”

                “Yeah, but this guy was like… REALLY picky.”  Abby stressed, waggling a probe at the English doctor.  “Like, a fussy librarian.  You know?  Librarians are scary.  He wouldn’t even let me have the TV on when he was working.  I mean, okay, I need my space, but even I play music to get my groove on.  This guy?  Nothing.  Total silence.  And he’d fidget every time I got up to go see what he was working on.  Probably has OCD issues.”

                Nodding absentmindedly, Tony turned to Ducky.  “Got anything, doc?”  He asked.

                Ducky snapped off the light and looked up at Tony.  “The big fellow—“ nodding to the left, “—had a disposable cell phone in his pocket.  Our mysterious friend asked me to hook it up to my own cell phone, which I have done.  As to their names, they are Ronald Jenkins, Derek Ruddmeier, and Rick Bouchard. Luckily all were carrying identification, but after that—“  The doctor frowned, “—our luck seems to run out.”

                “What’s the bad news?”  Tony asked.

                “Unfortunately,  our gentlemen seem to be in remarkably good health, with no distinguishing illnesses, fractures, or signs of surgery.”  Ducky indicated the corpse.  “This one has a few fillings, and that one back there is left-handed, but aside from that I can’t really find anything distinguishing about them.  Of course I’d need a full autopsy to see if there was anything else, but until then…”

                “We’ve got nothing.”  Tony sighed.

                “Not quite.”  Ducky held up a finger.  “You see, most street-level hoodlums suffer from an ailment of some kind.  Drugs, alcoholism, typhus…  Disease thrives in the gutter.  It’s a rare ruffian I’ve cut up who didn’t have signs of some debilitating illness.”

                Tony frowned.  “So?”

                “So, these men are in excellent health.  They are even fit, which is difficult to maintain without the aid of a gymnasium.”  Ducky rolled up a sleeve to indicate the man’s lean muscle.  “This suggests that what we have here are not street thugs, but rather men from a higher form of criminal activity.”

                “Professionals.”  Tony nodded.

                “No—a professional would have more gunshot wounds, more signs of hard living.”  Ducky’s face was taking on a sly look.  “These men have had much training, but not much experience.  I would surmise they work for a private security company.”

                Tony’s eyebrow arched upwards.  “This lady got private security to help her with a kidnapping scheme?  Will they even do that?”

                Ducky shrugged. “Some security companies are little better than mercenary vendors, I fear.”

                _“Not a bad guess, Dr. Mallard, but incorrect.”_   The sharp voice from the phone made them all jump.  _“Mr. Jenkins is a minor city official, Mr. Ruddmeier works as a linguistics expert , and Mr. Bouchard is in the automobile industry.  However, you are correct that all three work regularly at a gym and have taken numerous self-defense courses.”_

                “White-collar criminals?”  Tony hazarded.

                “Even those would have more signs of experience,” objected Ducky. “These men wanted to be criminals but lacked the initiative.”

                _“Correct.”_   Harold agreed.  “ _All three were members of numerous kidnapping fan-sites.  My guess is that Root found them through their respective interests and recruited them to her cause.”_

                “Wow.”  Tony breathed.  “You think she’d go for more of the experienced type, like she did with Raburn.”

                _“You would, and I can’t help feeling this was something of a risk for her.”_   There was the sound of clicking keys.  _“She must have had her reasons.  I’m looking into what these three men shared, and what she could possibly have gained from using them.  In the meantime, contact Agent Gibbs and update him on the situation.”_ There was a slight pause, and then he added, _“And just to inform you, Miss Scuito, I am not OCD.”_

                The others looked at Abby, who had the grace to blush.  “Oops.”

 

* * *

 

 

                “Thanks, Tony.  Keep me updated.”  Gibbs snapped his phone shut.

                Ziva quirked an eyebrow. “News?”

                “Nothing we can act on yet.”  Gibbs shook his head.  “Get anything from the surrounding houses?”

                Shrugging, Ziva pulled out her notebook.  “It seems this neighborhood is inhospitable to officers.”  She said. “Most were very adamant in their ignorance of what I was talking about.”

                “But?”

                “But.”  Ziva smiled with triumph.  “The old man on the corner, while no friend of the police, was even less of a friend of the kidnappers.  He complained about how they didn’t throw so much as a penny his way, and one time even hit him up for ‘protection’ money.”

                “Wannabe crooks.”  Gibbs shook his head, half-amused. “Can’t make up their minds how bad they want to be.  I take it you aroused the old man’s memory by being more generous.”

                Ziva snorted.  “He gave them up for a scant 20 dollars.  He REALLY didn’t like these guys.”

                “What’d he say?”

                “Sometimes they wore suits, sometime they wore coats.”  Ziva reported. “But clearly Wall Street types, he said.  They were laughing and joking most of the time.  They did it in shifts, there was always at least one here.  One time he said there was a lady with them.”

“Abby?”

Ziva shook her head.  “No, he said she was a brunette.  Talked to the others like she was in charge.”

“That’d be ‘Root,’ I suppose.”  Gibbs nodded grimly.

“She wasn’t there a lot.  Apparently she came by in a rental, but he said the others all brought their own cars.  The one drove a grey sedan, the other a black Lexus, and the last a red Corvette.”

                “He get the license plates?”

                “Just from the Lexus.  That was the day they beat him up.”  Ziva held up her notebook.  “Z42 B2045.”

                “Good work,” smirked Gibbs, punching numbers into his phone.  “Let’s see what our friend can tell us about that.”

                “Find out anything from the warehouse?”  Ziva asked.

                “One dilapidated chair, a bedroll, and a camp cooking stove.”  Gibbs answered, holding the phone up to his ear.  “A host of cigarette butts, and…  Harold.  We have a plate.  Zeta-Four-Two-Baker-Two-Oh-Four-Five.  Right.”  He clicked it shut.  “And also this.”  He held out an empty bottle of pills.  “Dramanine.  The seal’s been freshly broken, they must have taken it just before leaving.”

                Ziva frowned.  “Why?”

                “That’s what I’m going to ask Abby.”  Gibbs answered, punching more numbers into the phone.  A sharp beeping interrupted him, and he looked over as Ziva pulled a new device from her pocket.  “What’s that?”

 

 

* * *

 

_“Mr. Reese?  Can you hear me?”_

Reese glanced upwards in surprise.  “That’s interesting.  Since when do you talk through cars, Finch?”

_“I installed a small phone onto your vehicle years ago.  It allows me to track your location and communicate with you as needed.”_

“We really need to have a talk about personal boundaries, Finch.”

_“Some other time, perhaps.  I see they’ve left you alone while they do their detective work?”_

                “Yeah,” grunted Reese, surreptiously digging a wire out from between the seats.  “Not sure what they’re thinking, leaving me alone in the car.  Might be a trap… I think Officer David might have put a tracer on the door.”

                _“It doesn’t matter, we need to talk.”_   The phone answered.  _“I have here a record of some contract work Agent McGee did back in 2009.  It took a lot of digging to find it…  It was a pre-emptive program mentioned as a line-item on a bill up for debate, before the motion finally died in the Senate.”_

                “So technically it never existed.”

                _“Exactly.  I only stumbled across it because of an odd e-mail I found in Agent McGee’s archive—a message from the director of the program, thanking him for all he contributed to the project and for the inroads he made.  Apparently the project incorporated both hacking and development—the director mentions the code he cracked and the innovative ideas he contributed to the ‘Final Development.’”_

                Reese frowned, bending the wire into an appropriate shape.  “Maybe a program for automatically hacking into systems?”

                _“Perhaps.”_   Finch’s voice did not sound convinced.  “ _But it made me curious, and I followed up the e-mail account and the dummy corporation that paid Agent McGee for his work in that time.  It led me to a name—Denton Weeks.”_

                “Denton Weeks?”  Reese frowned.  “Deputy Director for the CIA?  The man Root kidnapped?  Why…”  The realization hit him and he stilled.

                _“Yes.”_ Finch answered.  _“It all makes sense.  Whether he knew it or not, Agent McGee must have been trying to hack the Machine.”_

                “And that’s what Root’s after.”  Reese breathed. 

                _“She’d still need physical access to do anything, but I’m afraid she may have made some headway…”_   A sharp beep interrupted him.  There was a pause.  _“Mr. Reese, I may need to get back to you.  There’s been a sudden development.”_

 

* * *

 

 

                Ziva frowned as the transmission cut off.  “Did any of that make sense to you?”

                Gibbs, phone already to his ear, simply shook his head.  “I see.”  He said.  “Thank you.”  Turning to Ziva, he said.  “Abby says dramanine is used for airsickness.  She may be trying to fly McGee out.”

                Ziva frowned.  “Surely she would know that we would put McGee on the air watch list.”

                “Maybe she thought we wouldn’t be that fast.”  Gibbs shrugged.  The ring of his phone cut them off, and he flipped it open.  “Harold.  What is it?”

                _“You’re on the right track, agent Gibbs, but I doubt that they were planning to fly out by plane.  That license plate you gave me is attached to a car parked at the Chinese Embassy. "_

Gibbs nodded.  "Okay.  We'll need to contact Consulate Services, ask them..."

 

 _"I don't think you have time."_  Harold's voice felt a little rushed.  "The _helicopter on the roof is scheduled to leave in two hours.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, this was written in the middle of Season 2, when the Machine was still being used by the government, which was trying to control it, and being sought by Root, who wanted to liberate it.
> 
> Comments, as always, are appreciated.


	10. Misdirection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both teams attack the Chinese embassy in an all-out attempt to find McGee and stop Root

 

                “Chinese embassy.”  Gibbs muttered, staring at the building.  “Clever.”

                _“Ron Jenkins was the city’s liason with the embassy_.”  Harold’s voice echoed from the phone propped up on the dash.  _“Ruddmeier was a translator employed there.  Mr. Bouchard had several factories in China and used the embassy to further those factories in any way he could.  Root must have approached them because of their access to this facility.”_

                “You know we can’t just go charging in there, boss.”  Tony, leaning in the car window, eyed his superior worriedly.  “The international community is awful picky about stuff like diplomatic immunity.”

                Gibbs ignored him.  “What are the odds that the ambassador is involved?”  He asked.

                _“…slim.”_   Harold answered.  _“It’s not impossible, but Root tends to work alone.  She takes on contract work, but in this particular case I believe it to be something more personal—something she would be uninclined to share.”_

                “And that something is what, exactly?”

                Harold fell silent and Gibbs grunted.  “All right.  Taking your word for it, then, let’s say he’s not involved.  How’d she get the helicopter?”

                _“She didn’t.  Jenkins commissioned it, reputedly for a minor Chinese official.  Interestingly, he told the pilot only to expect two passengers—a man and a woman.”_

                “The only thing creepier than the fact you know all that, is the fact that I believe you know all that.”  Tony shot a nervous glance at the phone.  “Seriously, we’d need like three warrants to get that information, AND permission from the Chinese government.”

 _“And in the time it would take you to get them, Root would have escaped with your teammate.”_   Harold pointed out.

                Gibbs shook his head.  “Wonder how Jenkins didn’t see anything suspicious with the arrangements he was making.”

 _“Perhaps Root told him he and her were going to run away together.”_   Harold suggested.  _“She is a… most duplicitous woman.”_

                Ziva, in the passenger seat,  smirked at the dashboard.  “Are we speaking from experience, perhaps?”

                “There’s an image I need to get out of my head.”  John muttered, still in the backseat.

                The others threw him an odd look before returning to their discussion.  “If the ambassador isn’t involved, you think there’s a chance he’ll just give us the strange lady on his premises with a hostage?”  Tony suggested hopefully.

                Sighing, Gibbs leaned back in the seat to arch an eyebrow at Tony.  “When was the last time an ambassador gave us anything without several hours of haggling?  Or an appointment?”

                “We don’t have time to be polite about this.”  Ziva nodded.  “I can see at least five points of entry from this position.  I say we go in the back, knock out the guards with the tear gas in the back, perhaps use the ID cards Tony brought to disarm any security doors we find, and make our way to the roof before security can mobilize.”

                “And then we’re trapped on the roof with a stairwell of angry Chinese soldiers behind us!”  Tony smiled.  “Great plan!”

                Ziva shot him a condescending look.  “THEN: We steal the helicopter and fly away.”

                “Does the word ‘international incident’ mean anything to you, Miss Mossad?”

                Ziva held up a warning finger.  “NEVER call me that again.”

                “It’s actually not a bad plan, apart from the repercussions.”  Gibbs toyed with his lip. 

                “The consequences of NOT doing it would be possibly losing our last lead on McGee.”  Ziva noted quietly.

                Tony was silent for a moment.  “I’ll see what’s in the trunk,” he sighed, pushing off the door.  “At least Abby and Ducky can dodge the heat for this… they can honestly say I dropped them off at HQ and had no idea what we were up to.”

                “Hold on.”  Gibbs stopped him.  “We just need is an effective distraction, so that the embassy doesn’t REALIZE we’re the ones breaking in.”

                Tony frowned.  “Not possible, boss.  They’re going to have to notice the guy creating the distraction.”

                “And we are all employees of record.”  Ziva agreed.  “It would be one thing if we had an unknown agent who we could maintain plausible deniability of…”

                She stopped.  Gibbs raised an eyebrow at her.  Tony blinked.  “Oh wow.  That is just NOT a good idea.”

                “It sounds like a fine idea to me.”  John noted from the back.  He held up his suddenly un-cuffed hands.  “What kind of distraction did you have in mind?”

               

* * *

 

 

                “The ambassador will be with you shortly.”  The short oriental man before them gave a little half-bow, almost a nod.  “We are most honored to receive visit from federal investigators.”

                Gibbs gave the man a brief smile.  “Tell him sorry for the inconvenience.  It’s just a small matter.”

                “Of course.  Please do not hesitate to ask if you need anything.”  The man gave another half-bow and retreated out of the lobby.

                “This is insane!”  Ziva hissed, the second the man closed the door.  “You seriously can not intend to put the most crucial part of our plan in the hands of a dangerous fugitive!”

                Gibbs shrugged.  “He was the best man for it.”

                “Once the distraction starts, the place will go into lockdown.”  Tony muttered, casually leaning near the door the orderly had just exited. “Getting inside before that starts is the best way to infiltrate the base unseen.

                Looking away with a huff, Ziva shook her head.  “I still think at least one of us should have stayed behind  to ensure he followed through on the plan.”

“He will.”  Gibbs answered.

“He has no reason to help us and every reason to escape us.  He probably ran the moment we entered the embassy.  We shall be lucky if he decides not to betray us.”

                “He won’t.”  Gibbs settled into a chair and picked up a magazine.

                “How can you be sure?”  Ziva demanded.  At Gibbs’ amused eyebrow, she groaned.  “Oh, please tell me this is not another of ‘the gut’s’ decisions.”

                “Look at it this way, Ziva.”  Tony smiled, making his way toward the opposite door and checking the window.  “If, in ten minutes, nothing’s happened, you can go back to your strategy.”

                “We’ll have lost the element of surprise.”

                “When has that ever stopped you?  The boss has this covered.”  Throwing Gibbs a slightly-nervous glance, Tony added: “You… DO have this covered… right boss?”

                Gibbs just smiled.

                _“Your lack of trust in my associate is understandable, but I assure you that we have a mutual goal here.”_   Harold’s tinny voice resounded in the earpieces they were all wearing.  _“The distraction shall begin momentarily.  If I might suggest you make the necessary preparations?”_

                “How long do we have?”  Gibbs murmured, barely moving his lips.

                There was the faint sound of an explosion, followed shortly by shouting.

                _“Not long.”_   Harold indicated.

* * *

 

 

                “I liked that car.”  John eyed the flaming wreck disconsolately as he ratcheted a clip into his gun.

_“There, there, Mr. Reese.  You can always steal another.”_

                “True.”  Dark forms were starting to sprint across the parking lot toward the fire.  “The arsenal in the back might be harder to replace, though.”

                _“I am so sorry you will not have enough firepower to do your job.”_   Harold’s voice had more than a touch of sarcasm.  _“I am certain you will manage with the twenty or so weapons still at your flat.”_

                “Thirty-seven.”  John tossed a few smoke grenades toward the parking lot before turning to jog toward the building.  “Most of the stuff at the house is tailored toward more… specific needs.  The car has the stuff I use for day-to-day work.  Or at any rate…”  He threw a disconsolate look back.  “…HAD.”

                _“Fascinating, Mr. Reese, but if I may return your attention to the project at hand?”_

                “I’m at the door now, Harold.”  John said as he drew even with a small service entrance. 

_“Unlocking.”_

With little fanfare, John kicked the door open and ran inside, checking the corners of the room beyond.  “In the stairwell.”

_“Good.  Start to make your way upward.”_

 

* * *

 

                Gibbs and the others turned around as the door flew open, admitting the orderly from before and four grim-faced soldiers.

                “Agent Gibbs,” said the orderly, attempting a rapid bow.  “If I might please ask you to come this way?  A situation has arisen.”

                “What kind of situation?”  Gibbs asked.

                “A bomb in the parking lot outside.  There may also be an intruder.  The security personnel have the situation under control, but for your safety, we have been instructed to escort you to a safer location.”

                Gibbs threw Tony and Ziva a look.  “Very well.”  He rose.

                They filed out into the hallway, two soldiers in the lead and two soldiers bringing up the rear.  Sirens were blaring and lights were flashing as they hurried down the hallway to the EXIT sign at the far end.

                The orderly’s hand went to his ear and he gave a quick nod.  “Shi de.” *Yes.* His eyes widened.  “ _Xi ce?_ *The West side?*”  Dropping his hand, he shouted to the guards.  “ _Zhushou!_ *Stop!* _Zhuanshen, ta de zhe yibian!_ *Turn around, he’s on this side!*  _Women xuyao…_   *  We need to…*”

                The door before them blew open, and a hail of gunfire erupted from the hallway beyond.  As the soldiers and NCIS agents scattered, a small cartridge dropped from Ziva’s hand.

                Billowing smoke filled the hallway as gunshots filled the air.

 

* * *

 

 

                “That ought to be enough mayhem, I think.”  John muttered.  Firing a few last shots, he tossed a few flashbangs into the smoke before ducking back into the stairwell.

_“Indeed.  My trackers indicate that the NCIS team have successfully ditched their would-be escorters.  If they are discovered now, they can simply claim they were lost in the confusion.”_

                “Still going to be difficult to explain why they’re on an upper level.”  John noted, jogging up another flight of stairs.  “AND, the second they’re discovered, they’ll simply be taken to another safe location.”

 _“Which is why I’m currently setting off alarms throughout the lower part of the base.”_   Harold’s smug tone could hardly be heard over the blaring sirens.  _“It should sufficiently occupy security.”_   His tone changing, he continued, “ _Mr. Reese, it would probably be best to discuss your plans for escaping their custody now.”_

“It’s something of a bad time right now,” noted John, pausing on the stairs a moment to listen to the shots on the floor right now.  “One step at a time.  Focus on saving Agent McGee first, we’ll figure out the escape details later.  Have you located Root yet?”  John continued to dash up the stairs. 

_“Not as such.  She seems to…”_

A soldier came out of the side door and shouted an exclamation, bringing up his weapon.  Without breaking stride, John whipped up his rifle and felled the man with two shots to the knees.  The man collapsed, keeping his grip but losing his aim.  As he brought it back around, John closed the distance between them and gave the man a swift kick to the head.

_“…Mr. Reese?”_

John winced and rubbed his foot.  “Sorry, Harold.  I got distracted for a minute there.”  Stepping over the man’s unconscious form, he moved his way into the hallway.  “Stairwell has been compromised.  I need another way up.” 

There was the faint sound of clicking keys.  _“Proceed west down the hallway , and turn left at the first junction.  There is a service elevator about halfway down the corridor.”_

John nodded and broke into a jog, weapon in hand.  “What were you saying about Root?”

 _“She seems to have entered some time prior to our attack, and used a virus to wipe all the surveillance records.  She’s not on any of the cameras, and without the records, I can’t track her progress through the building.”_   Harold’s voice rose with annoyance.   _“I’m tracking the virus, but that will take time, and might not lead anywhere at all.”_

“Could she be hiding in a blind spot?”

 _Harold gave a light snort.  “The surveillance in the Chinese Embassy is VERY thorough.”_   He answered.  “ _What’s more probable is that she’s altered the footage to portray the room she is in as empty.”_

John whipped around a corner, pointing his gun up, then down it.  There were no soldiers, no sound save the constant blaring sirens.  “So how do we find her?”

 _“Probability, Mr. Reese.”_   Harold answered.  “ _Someone must have admitted her, even as someone admitted the NCIS team.  She can only hide in the rooms she has access to.  Therefore she is either in a waiting room of some kind, or in the offices of one of her three co-conspirators.”_

“Sounds good.  Give me the…”  John caught movement out of the corner of his eye and dived just in time.  Bullets whizzed overhead as the offices filled with the chatter of gunfire.

“Harold.”  John panted, taking shelter in an alcove, glancing at the guards assembling at the far end.  “I may be delayed a bit here.”

_“So I see.  I will contact our allies and inform them of the situation.”_

 

* * *

 

 

                Tony kicked the door to Jenkin’s office open and charged in, gun at the ready.  Gibbs and Ziva were just a step behind him.

                It took them all of five seconds to clear the room.  Gibb’s hand went to his ear.  “Harold, there’s no one here.”

                “ _Understood.”_   The voice answered.  _“I’ve also managed to eliminate Mr. Bouchard’s office—I directed a Chinese team to sweep the area and arrest anyone they found.  My associate is en route to Mr. Ruddmeier’s office now, but I have misgivings as to what, if anything, he will find there.”_

                “She’s got to be somewhere else.”  Gibbs muttered.

                Tony shrugged.  “Why don’t we just go to the helicopter pad and wait to jump her?”

                “She might just wait us out.”  Ziva pointed out.  “Let security discover us and escort us off the premises.  Or she might escape through another route…”

                “…and we would completely lose her.”  Gibbs nodded, rooting through the desk.

 _“John has cleared Mr. Ruddmeier’s office and found nothing, as expected.”_ Harold’s voice sounded strangely detached.  “ _However, I have located a small waiting room on the seventh floor, just adjoining the launch pad, that seems likely to accommodate potential passengers.”_

                “What’s our best route to that location?”  Gibbs asked.

                _“Take the elevator.  If Miss David is able to…”_

                “Bypass the wiring and cause it to skip the intervening floors, yes, yes.”  Ziva snapped, already moving out the door.  “It shouldn’t be a problem.”

 

* * *

 

 

                “Seventh floor, you say?”  John panted, hand to his ear as he dashed up the stairs.  About him, bullets whined and pinged off the metal railings.

 _“It’s not a sure thing, but it’s our best bet, at least until I can crack this virus.”_   Harold sounded preoccupied, the clicking of keys rising to an even greater rate. 

                “I’ll take it.”  John fired a few shots down the stairwell, just to keep the guards cautious.

                _“I have a thought,”_ said Harold.  _“The NCIS agents are on their way there already.  I’m certain they’re quite able to effect Mr. McGee’s release.  Now would be an excellent time for you to retrace your steps to the ground floor...”_

                “They don’t know what Root’s capable of, or what she’s interested in.”  John responded shortly, continuing to run.

                _“No, but they have a great deal of experience in hostage negotiation, something which, quite frankly, you have not.”_   Harold answered, with just a hint of annoyance.  _“How exactly do you hope to end this with you NOT in their custody?”_

John shrugged, still running.  “I’ll figure something out.  Now what troops are there on the seventh floor?”

                _“One moment…”_   Harold paused.  “ _About ten or so, I would say.  They’ve barricaded the west hallway, in anticipation of your attacking the records room.  Once you exit the elevator, I would take a sharp left, then proceed past two doors before taking a right.  Go into room 714.”_

                Kicking open the seventh-floor door, John moved into the hallway, rifle raised.  “Sounds good.  By the way, what’s the plan for once we GET her?”

_“One step at a time, Mr. Reese.  I’m working on…”_

                The sudden rat-tat-tat of a submachine gun cut off what exactly it was that Harold was working on.  John felt a sharp pain in his shoulder, and practically on instinct dove to the floor, ducking behind a handy filing cabinet.  Bullets punched through the flimsy office cabinet just above his head.

                “Hold that thought, Harold.”  John hand went under his coat.  One last grenade—a flashbang.  Pulling the pin, he threw it around the filing cabinet, closing his eyes against the flash.  Already his feet were on the ground and he was running—not toward the troops, but toward the left turn that Harold had mentioned.  A few bullets whined about his ears—some of the guards had had the knowledge to look away or close their eyes also.  As he leapt for the corner a bullet glanced off the side of his vest, knocking the breath from him. 

                But he had not time to regain it.  With a furious sense of urgency he pushed himself forward, hearing the shouts of the guards already on his tail.  He fired blindly back the hall to make them think twice about following him… not that it would work for long.

                “Harold.”  He wheezed, breathing again with difficulty.  “What was that room number again?”

                _“714.  But John, the NCIS team is there already, they can handle…”_

                “No, they can’t.”  John muttered, forcing himself into a jog.  “They need me.”

 

* * *

 

 

                “Room 714, he said.”  Tony hissed, drawing even with the door.  “This is it.”

                No words were needed.  Gibbs nodded left to Ziva, right to Tony. At the signal, the Mossad agent kicked in the door, charging in with her gun at the ready, Tony and Gibbs just a step behind her.

                They were greeted by the blank stares of three Chinese dignitaries, one Chinese ambassador, and half-a-dozen guards, armed to the teeth.

                All three agents immediately put up their guns.  “Uh…”  Tony smiled, backing up a few steps.  “This… really isn’t what it looks like…”

                “Really?”  The ambassador raised an eyebrow, signaling to the guards to lower their weapons.  “Then by all means, enlighten me as to what exactly it IS.”

                It was exactly at that moment that John burst through the door behind them.

                Immediately the guards raised their weapons again, but in the second it took them to do it, John grabbed hold of Tony and pulled him in front of him as a shield.  “Back off!”  He shouted, sweeping the room with his rifle.

                The guards kept their weapons trained on him, but hesitated to fire.  Gibbs and Ziva, guns also raised, exchanged a glance.

                “Drop your gun.”  Tony’s gun clattered to the floor.  “The rest of you, keep back.  I warn you, I’m a desperate man,” continued John, in a low, dangerous tone.  “Don’t push me.”

                “Easy there, fella.”  Tony, caught in the man’s headlock, gave a nervous laugh.  “Let’s just all calm down, eh?”

                “Gibbs…”  Ziva growled.

                “Don’t shoot, Ziva.”  Gibbs ordered.  His voice was calm, but his eyes were furiously narrow.  “Too close quarters.”

                “I’m leaving now,” said John, slowly backing up, Tony still in front of him.  “I’m going into the hall, and there had better not be any guards there.  No one follows.”

                “Harold.”  Gibbs muttered, earning some curious looks from the guards.  “What the hell is going on?”

                Harold was curiously silent.

                John pulled Tony out into the hall, still aiming his assault rifle at the others.  The door slammed shut behind them and there was a moment of silence.

                Slowly, the guards lowered their weapons.  Gibbs turned to the Chinese officials.  “Mr. Ambassador, with your permission…”

                “Please.”  The ambassador nodded.  “Take some of my men with you.”

                “With all due respect, Mr. Ambassador, they’d only complicate matters.”  Gibbs shook his head.  “They’re better served keeping you safe here.”  Giving the man a nod, Gibbs bolted out into the hallway, Ziva a step behind him.  John was nowhere to be seen.

                “I told you!”  Ziva hissed.  “Much as I hate to say it, I TOLD you!”

                “Keep it together, Ziva.”  Gibbs growled, turning to sprint down the hallway.  “This isn’t over yet.  They’re headed for the helicopter pad.  He’s still after Root.”

                “Possibly.”  Ziva snorted, running alongside.  “Or possibly he just thinks there are too many guards below us and a perfectly usable helicopter above.”

 

* * *

 

 

                John slammed into the door, swiveling as he pulled Tony with him into the open air of the rooftop.  The helicopter on the pad before them had already begun to turn its rotors, kicking up a mighty wind.

                And there, hair whipping about her face, standing under the only camera on the rooftop, was a slight brunette with a little smile.

                “Root.”  John’s eyes narrowed.

                “John!”  Root’s smile widened as she pulled an unresisting McGee in front of her. He had almost definitely been drugged, his eyes were lidded and his movements sluggish. “You know, I had a feeling you were coming.  Something about all the gunshots downstairs.”

                The door crashed open again, admitting Ziva and Gibbs to the roof.  They aimed at John, turned to see who he was aiming at, then… aimed at both.   “Let him go, John.”  Ziva ordered, eyes hard.  “Let him go, or I WILL shoot.”

                “Well, when you put it like that…”  John shrugged, slowly backing up.

                “I can drop you with a headshot at this range.”

                “She’s not bluffing, dude.”  Tony grinned up at John.  “She doesn’t really do the whole ‘bluff’ thing very well.”

                “You must be Root,” said Gibbs, ignoring the side conflict, pointing his pistol squarely at the woman.

                “And you must be Special Agent Gibbs!”  Root answered, her own pistol up against McGee’s jaw.  “I’ve read so much about you, Agent Gibbs.  Such a pleasure.  Did you and John get together to see me, or is this one of those happy accidents?”

                “You’re severely outnumbered here, we could flank your position without even trying.   I hear you’re an intelligent woman...”  Gibbs shrugged.  “Make the intelligent decision.  Let him go.”

                “Hmmm.  No, no.”  Root shook her head.  “See, I WOULD be outnumbered… If John there didn’t have one of your agents at gunpoint and the other one pointing a gun at him.  As it is, you’re really the only one with a gun on me, so… that doesn’t really make for a tactical advantage.”

                Gibbs didn’t so much as blink.  “I’ve shot more people.”  He noted.

                “Not as many as you think.”  Root shook her head.  “By the way, tell John to stop edging around like that.”  Out of the corner of his eye, Gibbs saw John freeze.  “It’s adorable, using the whole ‘hostage crisis’ as a ploy to flank me, but it’s…”  Her smile suddenly disappeared.  “…dangerous.”

                “Let him go, John.”  Ziva said again.  “I WILL shoot.”

                “Mmm, no you won’t.”  Root turned her attention to the side momentarily.  “If you were, you’d have done it already.  Personally,”  she said, further goading the former MOSSAD agent.  “…I think you’re too afraid of hitting your partner.”

                Ziva’s eyes tightened.

                Suddenly, John pushed Tony away from him, turned, and ran off across the roof.

                “Huh.  Kinda disappointing, I was hoping for something more elaborate.”  Root noted.  Glancing at Gibbs, Ziva, and the now-free Tony, she arched an eyebrow.“Aren’t you going to chase him?”

                “He’s not the one with a gun on our partner.”  Gibbs answered grimly.  “NOW we’ve got three to your one.”

                “My one still trumps your three, so long as it’s right against his head.”  Root observed.

                Ziva snorted.  “Did you not hear what I said to him?  I can solve this with one headshot.”

                “So can I.”  Root smiled sweetly.  “So I suppose it comes down to which of us shoots first, mm?  I warn you, though… I’m VERY good at reading body language.”

                There was a moment of silence.  The wind of the helicopter whipped about them on the roof.

                And then a phone rang.

                There was a brief moment of confusion.  The different agents looked at each other, trying to determine where the sound was coming from.  A sigh interrupted them as Root pulled a sleak black phone from her coat pocket.  “NOW he calls me.”  She shook her head.  “Hang on while I get this.”  Her tone was light, but her gun did not waver from the side of McGee’s head.  Raising the phone, she answered: “Harold.  So good to hear from you!”

                The other agents exchanged baffled glances.  “Has he been able to track her with that phone this entire time?”  Gibbs muttered.

                Tony shrugged.  “He said he was tracing the virus.  Maybe he found it.”

                “Sir, our fugitive is getting away.”

                “Let him.”  Gibbs answered.

                “But—“

                A laugh cut Ziva short.  Root was smiling and shaking her head.  “Oh Harold.”  She said.  “You always know the right thing to say, don’t you?  Fine.  You win.”  Pocketing the phone, she gave the three a strange smile.  “Looks like this round is over.”  Without warning, a syringe flashed in her hand and stabbed deep into McGee’s neck.  McGee, with an articulate cry, stiffened and would have fallen without Root’s support.

                “McGee!”  Ziva stepped forward.

                “Relax.”  Root said, gently lowering him to the ground.  “The antidote’s in my pocket.  Along with another toxin.  And ITS antidote.”  Standing up, she gave them a malicious smile.  “And if you shoot me now, you’ll never know which is which.  So I suggest you back off.  I have a helicopter ride to catch.”

                Tony and Ziva glanced to Gibbs. 

                “I’d make your decision quickly.”  Root observed.  “It’s pretty fast-acting.  Doubt you can get him to a hospital in time.”

                Slowly, Gibbs lowered his weapon.  The other two reluctantly followed suit.

                “So glad we could come to an agreement,” smiled the woman.  She started to back away.  “Well.  I had a GREAT time tonight, Agent Gibbs, but I don’t think we get on well together.  Let’s not do this again.”

                Gibbs’ eye did not waver.  “Be seeing you.”

                Root just smiled.  “Aren’t we the little optimist.”  And turning, she sprinted off toward the helicopter.  Stopping at the door, she turned again to wave, set something on the ground, and climbed inside.

                As the helicopter lifted into the air, the team dashed toward what she’d set on the ground.  There was indeed a syringe on the ground, but it was empty. 

                Picking it up, Tony read the label.  "Mescaline.”   Frowning, he glanced at the others.  “I don’t get it.”

                Swearing in Hebrew, Ziva drew her pistol and fired furiously after the retreating helicopter.

                “Mescaline is a harmless psychotropic.”  Gibbs explained.  “Just makes people a little loopy and prone to suggestion.  Probably what she gave him before.”

                Tony nodded.  “Thought it was awful convenient she had a whole medicine cabinet in her pockets.”

                Ziva’s pistol clicked empty.  With scarcely a pause, she ejected the clip and ratcheted another into place.

                “Ziva, enough.”  Gibbs called.  “They’re practically out of range already.”

                “Then… call the police!”  Ziva exploded.  “Or the air force!  Or the Coast Guard or whoever!”

                “It’ll take them a good thirty minutes to scramble.”  Gibbs shook his head.  “By that time the chopper will be long gone.”

 “But she’s getting away!”  Ziva insisted.

“Actually…”  Tony interjected, drawing questioning looks from Ziva and Gibbs.  “…no, she isn’t.”

 

* * *

 

 

                Root leaned forward in her seat.  “Hey pilot, change of plans.  Instead of the airport, could you just drop me off at the GNB tower?”  She smiled.  “It would be a big help.”

                The helmet in the front turned around to reveal a blank-faced John Reese.  “Sorry, ma’am.”  He tilted his head.  “We’re going to have to make an unscheduled stop.”

                Root’s eyes widened.  Her hand flew to her coat…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just about done! One more chapter and we'll call it good. Comments, of course, are always appreciated.


	11. The Evening After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The NCIS team deals with the aftermath of their very-strange-case in separate ways.

 

 

                The NCIS team left New York a few days later—approximately the time it took both Abby and McGee to get through processing at the hospital.  There wasn’t anything really wrong with either of them—a few cuts and bruises for Abby, a couple toxins in McGee’s blood—but Gibbs wanted to be sure, and Taylor wanted to swab them for any evidence he could find.  Taylor also wanted them to stay in town while he and his team completed their sweep of the crashed helicopter, but Gibbs had politely, but firmly, pointed out that he and his team had work to do.  A marine had been found dead in Washington, and it was time for them all to put the excitement behind them.

                Or at least that was what he said.  Once they got back to Washington, it became clear that actually, it was only Tony and Ziva who had work to do.  Abby and McGee were both ordered to take a week off and relax—Abby, after all, still had a number of days left to her vacation.

                The Marine was a refreshingly simple murder, and it was barely a day after their return to Washington that Ziva and Tony found themselves alone in the office, writing up the case report.  Ziva was typing away at her computer with a strange intensity.

                Tony’s eyes drifted away toward his co-worker.  “What did that poor keyboard ever do to you?”  He asked.  “Beating it to death isn’t going to make the letters come out any faster.”

                Ziva just snorted and continued pounding away.

                A small grin curved the edges of Tony’s mouth, and he pushed his chair back.  “Why didn’t you shoot him?”

                “Why…?”  Ziva’s head shot up.  Seeing his smirk, she glared and turned back to the computer.  “It was a hostage situation.  A hostage situation caused by YOUR buffoonery, I might add.”

                “You’ve made headshots before at that range.  Hostage or no hostage.”

                “You were not exactly making it easier for me.”  Ziva pointed out.  “Next time your idiocy gets you captured, lean AWAY from the target’s head, so as to give a clearer shot.”

                “Hm, now I seem to remember explaining that,” answered Tony, adopting a thoughtful pose.  “Unlike YOU, I actually trusted our grey-suited friend.”

                “Only because he told you his plan on the way up the stairs.” 

                “I still trusted him to be telling the truth,” pointed out Tony.  “And I was doing my dead best to KEEP you from shooting him in the head, but that doesn’t mean I’m not curious as to why you didn’t.”

                “I told you.  Hostage situation.  I have been told one should try to talk and not shoot during hostage situations.  Accordingly, I have been trying to talk.  More.”

                “C’mon, tell the truth.”  Tony teased her.  “You were afraid of hitting me, weren’t you?”

                Ziva snorted.  “Oh please.  Don’t flatter yourself, Tony.”

                Sighing, Tony placed a hand on his chest.  “You wound me.  Figuratively speaking.  But that only leaves one other possible explanation for why you’d pass up a perfectly good shot.”

                “Like what?”

                Tony’s grin turned delightfully mischevious.  “You were afraid of hitting HIM.”

                A flood of violent Hebrew attacked the smirking NCIS agent.

 

* * *

 

 

                “Take your orc shaman over the ridge, would you?”  Abby asked, squinting at the screen.  “Hopefully it’ll draw out those demons to where my dwarf rogue can hit them.”

                “Why am I always the bait?”  McGee grimaced, clicking away at his keyboard.

                “Be-cause you have a butt-load of hit-points and can heal yourself.”

                “It still costs mana,” grumbled McGee.

                “Plus, everyone hates orcs.”  Abby pointed out.  She threw the analyst a look.  “Why’d you go for an orc, McGee?  It’s like you’re practically inviting people to attack you.  Especially here, in the middle of an elf village.”

                Giving her a sidelong glance, McGee answered: “Going to the elf village was YOUR idea.”

                “Oh right.”  Abby shrugged innocently.  “You still agreed to it.”

                “Well just because…”  McGee’s attention was suddenly grabbed by the screen.  “Uh-oh.  Bait’s working, here they come.”

                The next few minutes were filled with the sounds of fiery explosions, complex spells, and frantic clicking.  At length the sounds faded and the two relaxed in their chairs.

                “Ah…”  Abby sighed.  “Okay.  What say we go to the paladin monastery next?”

                “Abs, we’ve been at this all day.”

                “And your point is?”

                McGee gave a sigh of his own.  “I was wondering if we could just… take a break for a minute and talk.  Just the two of us.”

                Ab’s face stilled.  She suddenly looked very small and frightened.  “Wha—what is there to talk about?”  She asked.

                “We each nearly died, Abby.”  McGee pointed out.  “Don’t you think that merits a little discussion?”

                For a moment Abby was quiet.  “…yes.”  She finally admitted.  Turning to McGee, she said:  “I never… when I saw you out there, after all the...  I mean, the way you traded in the…  I just…”  She bit her lip.  “I never… thanks.”  Her voice cracked a little.  “Thanks for… everything.”

                “I’d do it again.”  McGee told her.  Something occurred to him and he blinked.  “Although, I guess this time I’d arrange some sort of fail-safe so that they DIDN’T try to kill you the second I was out of hearing range.”  Abby gave a hiccupping sort of laugh and McGee smiled.  “But apart from that… I’d do it again.”

                “Don’t.”  Abby told him, looking him straight in the eye.  “You have to promise me… promise me you’ll NEVER do anything that stupid again.  I keep… I keep replaying that bit in my head where you… you got into the boat with that lady and just… drove away and I…”  Glancing away, she shook her head.  “I was sure you were going to die, McGee.  I was so terrified for you and I… I don’t want to feel that way again.”  She looked up at him.  “So promise me you won’t do it again.”

                McGee seemed to think.  “I can’t.”  He confessed.  “I mean, I can maybe promise I’ll be smarter about it… stick a subdermal tracer in my ear canal or wear a bulletproof vest or something but…  I can’t promise not to try and save you again.”

                Abby closed her eyes.  “I know.”

                There was a moment of silence.  Clearly, McGee had something else on his mind.  “Abby…” he began hesitantly.  “Do you think… we could… I don’t know… get back together?”

                Abby’s eyes flew open.  “That would be a VERY bad idea right now.”  She insisted, pulling away a little.  “Statistically, 53% of all decisions made in the wake of a life-threatening experience are poor choices.  Especially dealing with relationships.  There’s this study that psychologists think because the body is faced with mortality, it prompts the desire to reproduce and leave something behind.  I’m not sure what the exact figures on couples that get together after a mutual kidnapping, but the data suggests it can’t be very good.”

                “Right.”  McGee sighed.  “Sorry.  I just thought…”

                “Wait two weeks.  THEN let’s get back together.”

 

* * *

 

               

                Gibbs hung up his coat on the hook in the closet, clicking on the light as he entered the kitchen.  He glanced at the phone—three messages, none of which could be very urgent.  Opening up the fridge, he took out a beer, then, after a moment’s thought, took out a second.  He opened the door to the workshop and flicked on the light switch, illuminating the piles of lumber and the still-unfinished boat within.

                A little smile graced Gibbs’ lips, as he took a moment to inhale the odor of sawdust and varnish.  Quietly he descended the stairs into the workshop.  “Don’t suppose you know much about carpentry.”  He said.

                “Sorry.”  The voice came from the shadows below the stairs.  “Nobody taught me growing up, and I never had the time once I was older.”

                “You should make time.”  Gibbs answered, stopping to run his hand over the smooth-grained surface of the boat’s bow. 

                “My boss keeps me pretty busy. But I’ll ask about it.  Do you go off a design, or…?”

                “I could.  I prefer to play it by ear, though.  There’s some measurements I sketch out, but that’s it.”  Gibbs turned to study the figure below the stairs.  “You look good for surviving a helicopter crash.”  He noted.

                Reese shrugged, careful not to jostle the sling his arm was in, or budge the bandages hidden under his suit.  “Not my first time.”

                “Somehow, I believe you,” answered Gibbs drily.  Extending his arm, he handed Reese a beer.  “What about Root?”

                A wince crossed Reese’s face.  “Still around, best as I can tell.”

                Gibbs made a little grunt of disappointment.  “When Taylor told me there were no bodies in the copter crash, I assumed as much.”  He said, turning back to the boat.  “I suppose one of you could have dragged the other’s body away.”

                “I wasn’t in much shape to drag much of anything.” Reese pointed out, screwing the cap off the beer bottle.

                “Or stop a 5-foot woman, apparently.”   Moving to the workbench, Gibbs set down his bottle and picked up a piece of sandpaper.

                “What can I say?  She’s faster than she looks.  I slapped the gun out of her hand, but it went off and…”  Reese gave a helpless gesture.  “Can’t pilot a helicopter with a giant hole in the console.”  He took a sip.

                “Sure you can.  Just not very well.”

                “Not well enough to avoid crashing.”  Reese considered.  “But well enough to make it a minor impact, I suppose.  Still knocked me out… when I came to, Root was gone.”

                “Of course she was.”  The sandpaper rasped back and forth along the grain of the wood.  “And why didn’t she kill you?”

                Again Reese shrugged.  “I got thrown pretty far in the crash.  I doubt she wanted to spend time looking for me, especially since it might have turned out I WASN’T unconscious.  And…”  For a moment he looked away.  “…there is something of an… understanding between us.”

                Gibbs gave a little nod.  “I gathered that.”  He noted.  “Must say, I’m curious as to what your employer said to convince her to give up McGee like that.”

                “You’d have to ask him about that.”  Reese rolled his eyes.  “But he sent me to tell you that Root won’t be after McGee again—or anyone on the NCIS team, for that matter.”

                “So.”  Gibbs turned fully to look at Reese, arms crossed.  “This is the ‘leave her alone, she’s our problem’ talk?”

                Reese pretended to consider this.  “Pretty much.”  He answered at length.  “Though it’s a bit closer to ‘don’t waste your time.’  Root’s good at what she does, and she never leaves ANY traces.  Right now, all you’d have on her was the eyewitness testimony of you and two of your agents.”

                “AND McGee.”

                “McGee was drugged.  Hardly a reliable witness.”  Reese pointed out.  “Don’t get me wrong, Agent Gibbs.  I’ve read your file, and I’m pretty sure that if you put your mind to it, you’d catch her sooner or later.  But it’d take a long time—longer than your superiors would appreciate, I imagine.  Especially without a real case to connect her to.”

                “So I just let the woman who kidnapped and attempted to murder two of my agents walk away?”  Gibbs raised an eyebrow.  “If you’ve read this ‘file’ you have on me, you know that’s not my style.”

                “I’d hardly have come all the way to Washington if it wasn’t.”  Reese snorted.  “Just trust me.  She’s a hard person to find, but if you play it right, you can get her to find you.  And she’s more likely to come after us than you.”

                “Really.”  Gibbs nodded, eyes narrowed.  “And how do you know that?  We never did find out why she kidnapped McGee.  Or how you knew McGee and Abby would be in danger.”

                Reese smiled and looked around the workshop.  “You know…”  He mused.  “…this is probably one of the few places left totally free from surveillance.  No security cameras, no computers, no webcams… I’ll bet you don’t even bring your phone down here, do you?”

                “Usually I do.”  A light smirk tugged at the edge of Gibbs’ mouth.  “I made an exception this time.”

                “You’re an old-fashioned sort, aren’t you, Agent Gibbs?”  Reese noted, studying the smooth lines of the boat, the chestnut brown of its surface.  “A traditional cop with traditional methods.  Even if you’re not exactly up-to-date, though, you understand people, and the secrets that people keep.  Too old to be naive, I suppose, about the secrets people—and governments--hide.  Smart enough to know how to keep your own.”

                “And?”  Gibbs cocked his head.

                “And so am I.”  Reese said, standing to his feet.  “I may not understand people, but I understand secrets.  And I can keep them.”

                A snort broke loose from Gibbs.  “So what?  I’m supposed to just give up the chase on your say-so?”

                “No,” answered Reese, offering a smile.  “You’re supposed to trust me.”

                “Trust you.  You’ve given me no information, no details, no rationale.”  Gibbs crossed his arms.  “What am I supposed to trust you on?”

                “On instinct.”  There was perhaps just a touch of amusement in Reese’s voice.  “That’s what you do, isn’t it?”

                Gibbs glared at him and turned back to the boat.  “Tell your partner that as long as she stays out of my jurisdiction, I’ll leave the case alone.”  Reese inclined his head and started to move up the stairs.  “And tell him...”  Gibb’s voice stopped Reese, “...that if I find either of you, or anyone working with you, within half-a-mile of my people, I will move heaven and earth to take the both of you down.”

                Reese just smiled.  “You’ve got our number.”

                Gibbs turned around, a slightly puzzled look on his face, but Reese was already gone.  Yet as he moved back to his carpentry, Gibbs’ eye caught sight of something glittering on the stool where Reese had been.

                It was a cell phone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it. Comments, as always, are appreciated.
> 
> I wanted to leave the NCIS team in the dark about the Machine, as I doubt Gibbs would be able to stand for it, and it would involve shaking up too much. I toyed around for a while with a sequel, where Control started killing off the members of McGee's hacker team. But I had no idea where it was going, so I discarded it.
> 
> Many thanks to all my readers and their kind kudos and reviews!

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this a long time ago for FF.net. It takes place in Season 2 of PoI, and in no particular season of NCIS (except before Season 11, obviously)


End file.
